The Truth of the Matter
by spade-of-hearts
Summary: The tyrannical Cyrus Borg sets up his dictatorship in Ninjago after wiping away their past and their history and forcing the citizens into submission with the Hunger Games. A Hunger Games/Ninjago crossover. COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1

**The moment you've all been waiting for - the first chapter of my new Hunger Games! Told from our four characters' points of view, Lloyd, Kai, Wu, and Ming will lead us through the greatest period of change in the tyrant Cyrus Borg's cruel dictatorship. Can they bring about a revolution to shirk his rule? Moreover, will they ever discover the truth of the matter?**

**I do not own rights to Ninjago or Hunger Games. **

**I hope you enjoy! Read on!**

Chapter One - Lloyd

"There used to be many cities. Innumerable ones, big and small, with thousands and millions of people living there. Houses too, in neighborhoods and boroughs, all different shapes and sizes."

I look up, bleary-eyed at my teacher, who is just finishing up our history lesson, and, for me, my nap. It isn't her tone that arouses me from my peaceful slumber, nor the never-ending jab of Brad's stylus into my ribs, but her sudden and unprecedented talk of the past.

"We all… I mean, our civilization, our race… We lived in harmony with one another, in alignment with each of our elements, not segregated like we are today." Segregated is too harsh of a word, I know, and surely my instructor does also, but she bites her lip and continues. "When peril struck – when a group of skeletons led by a crazed lunatic lost to history led his army against Ninjago – a band of heroes who called themselves simply 'the ninja' rose and conquered the maverick and his forces."

I snort with disbelief, as do many others in the classroom. Everyone knows that Cyrus Borg came and defeated the foes. Glancing down at my textbook, I can see the countenance of the true hero of Ninjago. Borg has a slightly lopsided grin, slicked-back hair and overbright eyes, but behind that face lives the mastermind of peace, the bringer of order to a chaotic nation. Who is my instructor to challenge that?

"With the help of the ninja a new era of peace began… only to be shattered by the rising of the Serpentine." A few girls shudder at the mention of the snake rebellion, a story we've all had heard before bedtimes many years ago. "The snakes, led by an Anocondrai named Pythor and then by a Hypnobrai named Scales, challenged the ninja and their morals. They were soon wiped out by the ninja, though, encased in a tomb of stone for eternity."

I frown, her information clashing with that of my own, tapping my fingers against my textbook's frayed corners absently. But Borg had obliterated the Serpentine army with a nuclear missile to their headquarters, radiation killing any of the survivors from the blast.

"But as soon as the peace was established the Stone Army came! And then the Overlord!" Laughter breaks out amongst the students, real laughter. The Overlord! That was where I have to draw the line. The Serpentine were somewhat shrouded in myth, but the Overlord? Never even proven to have existed. Desperation fills my teacher's eyes, a look of panic and fear that I've never seen before. The bell rings and the students file out of the door, grasping their school bags and styluses and chatting as they leave.

Purposefully I knock my satchel to the ground, shove Brad off of me, and wait until every student leaves to collect my things. As soon as I straighten up my teacher grabs my arm in a vise grip and holds me close. "Listen to me!" she hisses. _"Listen to me! _What I say is true! Please, hear me out! I tell you, I speak the truth!" I gasp and stumble away, heart pounding. Without a second glance I flee the classroom and skid into the hallway, putting as much distance between myself and my teacher as possible.

I find Brad and my lunch group sitting at our usual table, the All-Element golden dragon symbol emblazoned on our tunics and school bags. Amongst the group are Tony and Troy, twins with mousy hair and watery eyes, Cassandra, a pretty and vivacious brunette who is deep in conversation with an older boy I don't know, and Steven, a tall and pale boy with deep brown eyes and brilliantly red hair. The All-Elements sit together, as elemental wards usually do. I glance around the cafeteria and see the Fire table, full of rowdy and jocular kids showing off to their sweethearts and friends, the Ice table, quiet and studious, and the Darkness table, full of sullen and hostile kids with odd piercings and tattoos. Body alterations are illegal, but only if you were caught in the act of it, yet this never daunted the Darkness. More piercings, more respect. I'm glad I didn't test as Darkness. I couldn't have survived with them! The other elemental wards are on a different schedule and don't lunch with us All-Elements.

"So guess what she told us, huh? That Borg didn't nuke the snakes, some ol' ninja did!" Brad is retelling history class to a captivated Steven, who is a year older and doesn't have classes with me. Classes are determined by age, not element, so each class is a mix of all the kids from all the wards. I am 13, so all the thirteen-year-olds in school are in my class.

"But everyone knows Borg did it! Sheesh!"

Steven snorts into his milk and rolls his eyes. "Next year ya get Brady. He'd never tell anything but the cold hard facts!" Brad and I groan. Our fourteen-years history teacher will be Professor Brady, notorious for his strictness and adhesion to the absolute truth. Rumors fly around school of him beating kids who lied or cheated in his class, but I suppose that's just childish nonsense. Christina swivels to face us and smirks knowingly down at Brad and I.

"Steve, don't talk! Wait till they get Rosen!" Yet another infamous instructor is named, Professor Rosen of the sixteen-year-olds.

"Guess our future is blighted by maniacal teachers! This year I'm volunteering for the Games!" Brad jokes.

The bright mood of the All-Element table turns sour at Brad's offhand comment. All conversation ceases and every eye is on the blond boy. Brad turns red and lowers himself in his seat. An Earth who is passing by freezes and turns to face a terrified Brad. With his coal-black skin and dark eyes, he certainly looks formidable.

"Don't joke about it." All of the table jumps when the Earth boy speaks, voice low and gravelly. "It is not a joking matter." He swings his bookbag around to his shoulder, the mountain emblem ironed onto its surface, and walks away, each step resonant and ominous in the silence of the cafeteria. Slowly the buzz of idle chatter fills the room again and the All-Elements begin to talk again, the outburst of Brad's behind us.

Today I walk with Troy and Tony from school to the All-Element living complex, kicking rocks with our scuffed boots and tossing the stones into the ditch alongside the road. Three roads lead from the Complex – the living quarters of all of the citizens – one road going to the market, which is predominantly held by Earth, one road going to the school, which hosts students ages thirteen to eighteen, and one road leading to the factory, where a good half of the population work. The rest of the working adults find jobs at the school or the Complex, maybe teaching or being a janitor or something, or work in the fields, which is slightly better because one could take home a daily amount of food home based on individual production. My mother, Misako, stays at home with my little sister Skye, who's seven and had yet to take her aptitude test, while my father works in the factory as a major project overseer. Because Garmadon, my dad, is so high up in the company, my family and I rarely have trouble with money. Some, though, like Troy and Tony, do struggle with paying for food for their own families. Though they didn't let on about it, I can see that the twins are growing thinner. Worry knots in my chest as I kick an especially large rock into the ditch. I hate just standing by while people I know are starving. I want to help, truly, but I can't think of a way that wouldn't portray myself as superior and arrogant. I glance at the twins as they chatter on about history class, and with a sick feeling I turn away, sighing ever so slightly.

The Complex is circular, with element blocks like pie slices fanning out from the center. Each is color coded, with Air being white and Metal a lustrous bronze and so on. The brilliant gold of All-Element is easily visible in the afternoon sky. I walk up to the gargantuan glass doors and place my student tag on the scanner. When I graduate school I will receive a new card for entry that working citizens use. Some even use their finger as a scanner, supposedly getting pricked by a needle of sorts and having their blood tested for entry. I make a face as the doors slid open with a satisfying hiss. I prefer the painless card-entry way myself.

The All-Element Atrium is made of golden marble, with a fountain gurgling in the center. A few young kids, not yet school-aged, are splashing each other with the water. Two staircases, richly carpeted, lead up left and right. Here I part with the twins, them ascending the right staircase and I the left. I have always liked how professional the All-Element Atrium looks. The rooms upstairs are much less posh and clean, but it gives me a feeling of belonging and pride to see my element represented so well.

Once I reach the top of the stairs I turn left and jog down the hallway, take two concrete spiral staircases up, then walk a few paces to the right until I come across room 207. My family's room. Again using my student pass, I open the door and step inside. My family lives in one room, as all families do, but we make good use of the space provided. One corner is the bedroom, curtained off by tall drapes that hide the four small mattresses on the floor we use as beds. Another holds a makeshift kitchen, with a real, working stove, which Garmadon had hired a Metal to trade for, and also a sink, which comes with every room. One corner contains large, plush couches for reading and family time, which are rarely unoccupied, and the last corner is the playroom. I outgrew the playroom years ago, so Skye has taken it over. Now she has her wooden figurines set up to play school, and surely she would beg me to play too. Of course, I will oblige. Deep down, I really love the little kid. _Hopefully she tests All-Element too_.

Misako leans over the stove, where a bowl of soup boils, filling the room with warmth and the delectable fragrance of wood mushrooms and beef. Fresh meat is traded for, and I wonder if my father had carried out the transaction himself. Skye leaps to her feet when I enter, yellow jumper swishing about her like the skirt of the fairy princesses she fantasizes about. "

Hi!" She waves at me, despite my being a mere six feet away from her.

"Hey, Squirt."

Skye crosses her arms and pouts in reaction to her pet name. "Mama! Lloyd called me Squirt again!" But Skye can't hold her pose of defiance for too long and runs up to give me a hug.

"Hey. How was today?" Skye darts back to her dolls and waves one at me.

"Billy got in trouble today! He took Johnny's toys!" I arrange my features into a look of sympathy for Johnny, then stride over to Misako. She embraces me and ruffles my hair, causing me to reach my hands up and smooth it back down automatically.

"Dad's overseeing a big construction project today – part of the forcefield for the Games." Even the mention of the Games make my stomach drop.

"Okay. Is he trading?"

Misako shakes her head. "I don't think so. Good for us, though! Maybe he'll be on time today!" She chuckles softly and stirs the soup for a moment.

"Where did you get the meat?"

"Garmadon traded for it the other day. I just kept it cold and decided it would go nicely in our stew." I feel slightly on edge, as if she isn't telling me something. Of course, all of my father's trades are top-secret, nonetheless illegal, but still… I reach down and pick up one of Skye's castaway figurines, rolling its wooden limbs between my fingers. We stand there for a moment, the two of us thinking with Skye's banter in the background, her chatter blocking out the sound of approaching footsteps…

"I'm home!" Garmadon steps over the threshold, boots muddy from the road home from the factory.

"Daddy!" Skye launches herself into Garmadon's arms and he spins her around in a circle.

"There's my favorite girl!" Misako gives Garmadon a quick kiss and grabs Skye in a one-armed hug. I give my dad a hug too, as is customary, and discreetly check for signs of trading, like leaves or twigs in his hair or stuck to his shoes, but he's clean. "What's for dinner, I'm starving! Horrible day at work, Douglas thought it would be funny to start up the forcefield and I had to use the defibrillator on him!" Misako gasps.

"Was he all right?"

"Oh, he was fine!" Garmadon turns the sink on full blast and begins to wash his hands.

"Dinner is stew, by the way!" Misako calls to him as she enters the makeshift bedroom and pulls out a towel from the blankets. I almost miss her glance at Garmadon as she reenters the main area, a look of pity and worry and… fear. Garmadon looks back at her gravely and nods. I spin around, eyes wide, trying to act as if I haven't seen their shared look. They are hiding things from me … but what? Garmadon pulls Skye over to stir the soup, hoisting her up on his hip like he did when she was small. Skye giggles and takes the wooden spoon and stirs with wide, sweeping strokes, as if showing off that she gets to help fix the soup and not me. I roll my eyes at her and set the bowls out on the coffee table in the middle of the sitting area and prepare the dinner table, still mulling over my mother's look in my thoughts. What could it mean?

That night I lie awake, listening for any sounds coming from my parent's side of the bedroom. Skye's soft breathing echoes in my ears, but other than that I hear nothing out of the ordinary. I'm about to give up and go to sleep when my mother's voice penetrates the darkness,

"Douglas." A faint rustling of sheets ensues as Garmadon turns over uncomfortably. "He's gone."

"No!" My mother exclaims.

"They thought he was testing the forcefield for weakness. They thought he was weakening it. I don't know! He could be blamed for anything." My mother takes a shuddering breath.

"Did he trade?" Of course, they could get him for that, too.

"Hard to say. It isn't something a fellow is very open about, if you know what I mean." Garmadon laughs weakly. "It was the Nindroids. They haven't released them as guards yet, but they patrol the factory day and night. I have reason to believe they will be in full power by the time the next Games begins." Nindroids? What?

"But that's in a week! You don't think…"

"It doesn't matter what I think!" Garmadon growls. "We should get some sleep. Just… be safe, okay?" Misako whispers something I can't hear and then they are silent.

Nindroids. The Games. A man named Douglas murdered.

What is going on?

**How was the first chapter! Confused already? **

**Thanks a million for reading - even if you quit after this chapter. Your reads mean so much to me! Keep being awesome, dear reader.**

**And, if you fancy it, tell me what you think already! Any guesses on what might happen? Looking forward to meeting new characters? Reviews are super welcome!**

**That's all for today, dear reader. Until next time!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Glad to see you're still reading! :) Introducing Kai in this chapter... See what you think!**

_Chapter Two – Kai_

I pull my cloak around me, concealing the Fire element emblem on my tunic with a deft hand. In trading there are no elements. We are all the same, people in need, watching for bargains, helping each other and swindling at the next step. Some think trading is rough, barbaric, even. My father always said trading had a kind of beauty to it: the delicate balance of a scale, the feel of the objects as they pass over your hands. He was born a Metal and tested Fire, so he combined his strengths and became a blacksmith, trading the goods he could slip away with to the people of our community. He made a name for himself as a trader, too, wily and cunning, always coming out on top, making the deals fair even if the odds were wildly off. He was one of the greats… Until they caught him in the act. They made me watch. Now I trade in a sort of tribute to him, learning how to tip scales, eye grain, and measure worth in the blink of an eye. When I was younger I avoided the shifty merchants, the ones selling twisted amulets and rotten potatoes to ward off the Serpentine ghosts and skeletons, probably Darkness. But soon I learned a good trade comes with sacrifice, and now we are on pretty good terms. I, too, have made a name for myself in trading. When I offer a deal people stop to watch, just like they did my father. I'll never reach his caliber, the way he could exploit riches and impose justice on the lying tradesmen. But at sixteen I'm the youngest trader I know, and as one in the upper hierarchy of exchange at this age, who knows what I can become?

Nya, my sister, watches as I strap on my boots and add oil to the lamp hovering near the corner of our room. She has that worried and apprehensive look in her eye that she always gets when I'm about to leave to trade. Maybe she thinks of my father, and the terrible things they did to him when he was captured. The men of the family had to watch; she only heard of what they did, the terrible deaths they imposed on him, his face as his time drew near…She doesn't know loss. She doesn't understand why I have to do this. Will she ever? Since our mother died we've lived together, each as support for the other. I trade. She sews, and her creations sell well in the market. As a team we can survive until we're nineteen and get a job in society. I won't give up trading, not my father's life's work, and I suppose she'll work at the factory, her skillful hands weaving tunics and such for the schoolchildren. At nineteen we will be separated, given our own living establishments as citizens. As the man of the house I will stay here, but Nya will have her own place to stay. I wish desperately I could give her a better experience now, not one in fear of Borg discovering we're orphans and sending us to a home. The orphanage is near the schoolhouse, and you can see it out the windows on clear days, more of a prison than a home. In wilder moments I figured I would be able to escape, take my weapons and live in the woods surrounding our Complex, away from the grasp of Borg and whatever he is truly making in the factories. In trading we not only give out objects, but also secrets, pruned and polished and ready to be released into the next trader's hands. My mind buzzes with the secrets of a thousand trades, the rumors and gossips of a thousand traders, the balance between truth and fiction at the perfect point, delicately wavering over the line that depicts perfection – or as close to perfection as a trader can get.

The Games are coming up soon, so even more will flock to the trading posts to bet on the tributes and the victor. Wagers on hair color, gender, and the first letter in their middle name are only a few of the deals made that I have seen in my career. At tribute age, I don't bet on Hunger Games wagers, seeing it ironic and somewhat malicious, putting money on a young boy or girl's head, hoping they will die first, or perhaps last, or even not at all. My father also found these bets a violation of true trading. Death and life could be put on a scale, yes, but your hand should not be the one to tip it. The betters are usually men in their middle age, the more well-off ones with nice shirts and pressed slacks and potbellies, the ones who can spare a coin or two to bet on a tribute. They always look nervous, as if they will be caught betting and get towed off to be executed. No one has been caught in years, though. Not after my father…

My hand reaches to the doorknob when I hear Nya say, "Kai!" I whip around, expecting danger, but only Nya is there and she hugs me tightly. I can feel her warmth through my cloak and I hold her close for a moment. "Stay safe." She whispers into my ear. "You know me. I'm always careful." I wink and walk out into the hallway, closing the door behind me as I go.

My room is about as close to the Atrium as you can get, so in only a few steps I'm stepping on the uneven black obsidian tiles that form the floor. The irregularity of the floor is supposed to represent the sporadic and intriguing path of fire, bending and dipping and spiraling in plumes towards the sky. Braziers filled with multicolored flames billow with smoke that covers the ceiling with a thick fog. The snapping and crackling that fills the air is comforting in its familiarity. I step easily over the broken stones, my feet following the path I know by heart, and soon I emerge into the cool night air, a sharp contrast from the warmth of Fire Atrium. A cluster of young Airs, who were apparently peeking into the Atrium unattended, stare up at me as I walk out onto the footpath. "Scram." I tell them, and they turn tail and run pell-mell down the lane back to Air Atrium. I smile as they go, remembering the times I would stare into the Atriums of other elements, enchanted by the strangeness of it all, only to be scared away by older kids. "Now everything has come full circle." I say to no one in particular, watching the clouds of rock dust kicked up by the Air kids settle into the path, erasing their tracks. Then I turn, pulling my cloak around, and begin the path to the trade hub I've learned so well.

The place where we trade isn't really called anything definite. The outpost, the market – though not the Earth market, very confusing to some – the hub, the exchange, we all call it by what it means to us. Perhaps it is best it has no title, to let it remain anonymous, not personal to anyone, a tool to be used, a tool to live by. The trading area is a good few miles from the Complex and I usually run to it, but the night is clear and darkening, so I worry not about being seen. The stars shine like jewels in the sky, forming constellations that my father taught me how to read, to show which way was north and if a storm was coming. Jewels are precious in trade, objects even I have rarely handled, but if anything were to make up stars it would be them. I know from class that stars are made up of gases and planets out of stone or some other type of matter, but on clear nights such as this one I like to see them as opals or rubies glimmering down at Earth, shining their light down at us. There should be no imagination is there is only science, I think. Let kids dream of diamonds as stars, unless there is reason for us not to think. A trickle of unrest drips down my spine and I pick up the pace, eyes trained on the ground. Such thoughts are mutinous, insubordinate. But then again, aren't we "free?"

About two miles down the school road I turn into the ditch, careful not to leave footprints in the fresh mud at the bottom. My boots I traded for, as they were crafted especially for leaving little marks behind, but if anyone is to reveal trading to Borg it will not be me. I intend to keep my father's place hidden from all who do not deserve to see it, to use it. Some trade for money, some for items. I need neither. I trade for family, for tradition, for a father who isn't and never will be. Maybe I should loathe trading, a trap that lured my father to his death. But trading is no longer a trap to me. It is a way to him.

Electric lights, small bulbs slimmer that a pencil, line the clearing of the hub. The area for trading is enormous, larger than I care to find out, but I know every inch of it. I know where the old man hides his chicken eggs and the loose board in the soup-man's chest where he hides his herbs. I know the tree with the coils of rope hidden in the trunk, the fallen logs where new traders think their items will be safe. And above the main trading area, tree-walkways are made, where you can ascend to the canopy and buy from the more daring tradesmen there, or maybe just look out over the outpost with a satisfied feeling. Pickpockets tend to gather in the treetops, though, but I'm more than a match for them and no one who's been trading for a week would dare cross me.

My first stop is at Groot's stand, where the wizened old man hunches over his herbs and spices and shakes his fist at the new traders who walk past. True to prediction, a great many betters are congregated in the upper trees to bet on tributes. I stroll casually over to Groot and he straightens ever so slightly to acknowledge me. I scan his products, all worthless and just traps for the young traders, but examine their placement. Was his hand rushed, as if to hide something he had that was better while setting up? Are the herbs in any pattern or cipher? Ever since I became a serious trader I can decode almost any cipher instantly. Are the leaves cracked or stems bent, indicating a heavy load? Groot is a master at disguising his products, but I pinpoint his flaw and run it thought my mental inventory.

"Where's the sage?" I whisper as I finger a dried hanging root almost nonchalantly. Groot harrumphs angrily and pulls it out of a small pouch around his neck. The herb is fresh, but I can tell it has been forcibly handled. "Pickpockets?" Groot nods and grunts, tossing it towards me as if to goad me. I pull back one of the leaves and examine how quickly it springs back, admire the color of the leaf against my cloak. "I'd say a day past its prime. You'll rob the good traders if you sell them this trash." Sage is quite rare and his clipping is in excellent shape, but I have no need for the herb and just like to toy with the sellers. Groot mumbles something into his mustache and tucks the sage discreetly into its little bag, ending our deal.

Voritgin is the next merchant I see, his products – toys – thrown hastily onto the table in no real pattern. I quickly find the dummy cipher he has set and use it as a key to another pattern found in the hair of the dolls. Again, the code is a fake, so I use the product pattern against the wood grain in the rocking horse… "A tea set, I see? Porcelain, too." Vortigen throws up his hands in exasperation. "I spent hours developing that cipher! What was the flaw?" I wink in a rather infuriating way, then wave jauntily and stroll over to the next stand, that of a new merchant I've never seen before. She must be from the Complex – no codes, no secrets. I could have gotten a good price for the tea set but, frankly, it's more fun mocking the real sellers.

As the night wears on I unearth a broken Serpentine tooth, a 'cursed' amulet, and a set of styluses stolen from a supply truck, and traded with one of the tribute-betting men, selling him a bag of dirt for his silver watch. The trades have their own flow, the steady stream of deals and prices and added bonuses, into which one can easily be swept away, like hypnosis. The bag of dirt thing was a little cruel, a stunt I would never try to pull in a real trade, but the betters are disgusting, and, frankly, dirtbags. I smirk as I watch the better's friends pull him away to the betting stands as he fingers the bag of dirt I gave him, mouth open in a perfect oval. A few of the more serious merchants applaud lightly as I walk past their stands, already exploited. We all share a mutual dislike of the betters.

It begins to get really late, with the sun casting a pinkish glow about the horizon, not unlike the way it did in a painting I traded some time ago. Even the real merchants are beginning to pack up, and I'm bored of swindling the betters and have found all the good stuff for this night, so I leave with a farewell shout and head off to the main road, boots making no sound on the forest ground. I peer around the tree, looking for any guards or for any robot-warriors – a rumor I really shouldn't have traded for – but, seeing that the coast is clear, I walk alongside the road in the trees for safety's sake. A dazzling ray of sunlight illuminates the way ahead of me with a dappled golden light and I smile. Once I traded for a camera and took the liberty of taking a picture with it, a type of preservation we couldn't rival with just our memory. It was nice, feeling as if you could take a scene and keep it forever, always being able to pull up that moment at will, to see the way the sun danced upon the leaves, the way the wind whistled through the grass, carrying with it the smell of home.

I stand still, admiring the scene, taking a mental picture, unfortunately not the type to trade with, and still smelling the scent of Fire Atrium…I freeze, then leap to the right and sprint up to the road turning in circles, trying to find the source of the smell of smoke. The smell of fire. My mind is still on trading mode, and I'm running scenarios through my head, laying patterns and smells of smoke atop the ones I'm experiencing now… A cold stone drops in my stomach as I find the result of my trade, the secret product, the cipher.

They're burning the trading outpost. Whoever set the fire is burning down the hub.


	3. Chapter 3

**Aaand... Now we have Wu! Thanks again for reading, hope you like it! ;)**

_Chapter Three – Wu_

I step up to the maintenance door for the school building, pressing my thumb against the scanner and feeling the familiar prick as the needle tests my blood against its sample. With a ding I am cleared for entry and walk inside quickly, holding my hat over my head to avoid being seen. Though the hat enough would seem suspicious, people have long stopped caring about that and would rather be worrying about the upcoming Games. I wince as I recall the smooth, creamy envelope on my doorstep requesting me to join the ranks of the Gamemakers. Politely, I declined. Who else was drafted, who else requested to help Borg find new and inventive ways to kill kids? I shudder, thinking of my nephew, Lloyd, who is just now of age to be in the Hunger Games, thinking of myself behind a high-tech desk examining how to inflict grievous wounds upon him. I couldn't do it. I don't consider myself soft, but this is where I had to put my foot down.

Tabitha, the school's secretary, waves cheerfully at me as I walk past her station, the Water badge gleaming on her chest. I nod in her direction, then turn into my own office, checking as always to make sure the frosted glass is opaque as possible. Satisfied, I place my thumb on the scanner again, this time not even noticing the jab of the needle, and step inside.

My eyes scan the room, noticing anything out of the ordinary or files out of place. I don't make a habit of trading, but I find it help me notice peculiarities in my office during inspection. Today, however, nothing seems out of place, save a large, fat envelope sitting on my desk, stamped with the factory seal. I slide into my seat and take up the package in my hands, not heavy but not light, a balance like the kind they seek so desperately in trades. The envelope is thin and easy to tear, much easier than I expected, so I swing too hard with my letter-opener and papers go flying around the room. Sighing, I catch one that hovers near my hand and read the caption under the picture of a man on the front.

Suspect: Douglas, Nathanial. Age: 43. Weight: 188 lb. Occupation: Factory Worker, Second Class. Suspected for: Tampering with Forcefield (HG1394, usage confirmed); Testing weakened Forcefield without official consent; Fighting against security when they came to fix the problem.

A large stamp obscures a large portion of Douglas' face, a red stamp that reads "DECEASED." I gasp audibly, then scramble for the rest of the papers and peruse them, pinpointing the key words in each one – rebellious, resistance, punishment. One document tells about a fire off the main road to school, a fire so ravenous and out of control even Borg could do nothing about it. But clipped to the paper is an aboveground view of the burned area – a perfect square, like those found in mathematics classes, squares never found in nature. The trading hub has been obliterated.

I lean back in my seat, stroking my long beard thoughtfully, trying to get a grasp on what this all means. I glance over another sheet, a record of a schoolboy telling about a strange occurrence in class, dated only yesterday. "She started telling us all this stuff about some ninja, and the Overlord, and snakes called Pythagoras or something like that, and how Borg was EVIL for a time, like possessed…" I reread the quotes again and again, all given by different students on an outburst of their teacher's. And clipped to the records of their stories is another page, not unlike Douglas', that of a teacher's, on who's picture is the red stamp "DECEASED."

"So Borg is getting a move on," I mutter to myself, clipping all the leaves of paper together in a half-organized stack and sliding them into their envelope. Surely Borg knew about the trading outpost, for something like that is too big to keep a secret and our president has men everywhere. But why did he choose to burn it down now? And the man, Douglas, and the teacher, what made them choose their moments exactly to act out against Borg? I'm missing something, I know, which is maddening, but I can't find the variable I'm leaving out. Without the last number I can't find the cipher. And without the cipher, I'll never know what he's up to. The Games are coming soon, a time when the citizens are usually very submissive and docile. Why would he want to make a statement in a time when he is strongest? To grow even stronger?

Tabitha knocks on my door and I shove the packet of evidence into my file folder, locking it with a snap. "Come in!" I call, and she slips inside, clutching a folder of her own in her hands, her painted-blue nails a sharp contrast from the off-white of the document. "The thirteens are getting a new teacher today and I just needed to file the instructor's papers. You, know, protocol." She laughs a little and I relax, setting the folder on my desk and walking out the door. Technically, my job in the school is documentation, which gives very good inside information on the goings-about in Borg's offices. It was only a few days ago when I began to see irregularities in the files, ciphers not yet completed, information hidden in a poorly made fake code of the capital letters in report cards. A signal, surely, to something or someone. A signal to Borg, most likely, to do something, to start a program or begin a campaign. But all seemed calm until Douglas, the teacher, the fire. Something has begun, something Borg is controlling. But what?

I have yet to start on my real work, so I boot up the computer and see what my task is for today: Reaping Odds Check. Last year I organized the Odds, too, so this time around I know what to expect. The thirteen-year-olds get one name in the bowl, except for the ones who take the grain and oil supply, tesserae, who have more, then the fourteens have two names, and so on. I scroll the list of tesserae students, breaking habit only to check and see if Lloyd is on the list, which he isn't, and then put the list into a secure program for name-making. Next I calculate the odds of which element will have the oldest and youngest competitors – oldest being the element with the most tesserae users, Earth, and the youngest with the least amount of tesserae users, Light. Next comes the real statistics, calculating the odds of the average child from each element if they don't take tesserae. Each comes in as expected until one percentage jumps sky-high and I type frantically to keep it down. Zooming in on the rogue odds, I penetrate the firewall set up to protect it and my jaw drops at the amount of further coding used to keep it secure. No doubt about it, someone has tampered with the Reaping odds. The security is too well-done, and likely only an expert trader could penetrate it. I know I have to report this, but who would I be reporting to? Borg, who could have easily, and most likely, made this certain virus for the Games. I can't even find its target. Sighing, I scrap the whole project and report it to Borg Enterprises, wishing desperately there was something I could do to help the kids now at risk. Were this year's tributes pre-chosen? The ones most dangerous to Borg, did he want to eradicate them? I put my head in my hands and watch Tabitha's shadow out of the corner of my eye. She doesn't know. They don't know. No one knows.

I need to see Garmadon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Our last character now - Ming. Can any of you guess what the secret she hides is? **

**But anyways... Have fun reading!**

_Chapter Four – Ming _

I squint into the light the oil lamp casts around the room, oil bought with my tesserae. The dim glow illuminates my entire room, which is surprising given how little oil I put into it last night, but I'm grateful I have enough to see by this morning. Often times I wake up to complete blackness. I pull the moth-eaten blankets off me and stretch, opening the windows to use the natural light and save as much oil as I can. I'm not a trader, but I can hire someone to trade whatever oil I have left at their hub, or whatever they call it. Money is something I lack rather seriously, but I can spare a bit hire a trader every once and a while.

The only occupant of the room is me, ever since my mother died giving birth to my sister, who also died only hours later. I assume Borg Enterprises thinks there's a father, which there isn't, since I never met him and Mother refused to talk about him. Maybe he was Darkness, too, like me, and I'll come across him one day. Darkness is certainly not the best place to live on your own, but I have a way of dealing with the scoundrels that live here that will make them wish they'd never laid eyes on me. It's hard to make enemies here, since we all kind of mutually hate each other. Sounds rough, it works out pretty well if you stick to the norm – stay away from me and I'll stay away from you, stuff like that. Little community, little friendship, very independent, that's the Darkness way. People see us as the creepy ones, that ostracized element no one likes and all the little kids tease. Darkness has secrets, though, secrets any trader would give their right arm to know, secrets about secrets, things no one knows but the secret-keeper. Secrets are a way of life, a language one learns to understand. People claim to have the biggest and most terrible rumors, the strangest tales, the weirdest lies, but I know they are all fooling themselves. I have the largest secret of all.

Breakfast is delivered at school, which I have to attend because I'm still school-age, only fifteen. Four more years seems like an interminable wait for freedom, four years until I can break away from the chains of lies I have bound myself with, but four years all the same is what I will have to wait. In a way my life seems like a series of "have's", that I must to this or can't complain about that because it is mandatory. In a world of servitude, Darkness is like a safe haven of relative freedom, a place to do what you wanted… yet still encompassed by the boundaries of Borg Enterprises. With a sigh I toss my school bag near the door and stoop to tie my shoes, eyes resting on the Darkness seal upon my tunic, some purple-black swirl design that I've never been able to identify. Yes, I am unfree, but Darkness gives freedom – the freedom of knowledge, the freedom of secrets, the freedom of knowing what others do not – leverage, like in trades.

I tie my long, dark hair into a ponytail, grab my bag and walk out the door. A few older teenagers with tattoos obscuring nearly all of their skin glance up hopefully at the sound of the door, looking for trouble, but when they see me they pale under their ink and dart away in the blink of an eye. I smile, remembering our run-in a few years ago and how long they remained in the hospital afterwards. Anyone in their right mind steps aside when I walk past. Not all secrets stay that way. Mine, though, is one to be respected.

The school road is crowded with kids, old and young, some walking in big groups and others, like me, alone, looking around with wide eyes and taking it all in. Even in their groups, however, the students are still categorized by element. The Waters clump over to my left, yammering on about something or other, and the Lights and All-Elements are in clusters to my left. The only element that is really divided is Darkness, but that works well with us and we intend to stay that way.

My class of fifteens is a rowdy one, made up mostly of Fires and Lightnings, who together make for a very energetic bunch. This suits me well, because I don't really have to go to "school" but to hear our instructors yelling at various kids to sit down, be quiet, and so on. I do well enough in classes, I suppose, but there's really no point to them save to educate us enough to function later in society. After all, if we're just going to be shipped off into the arena we don't need to know about photosynthesis unless it's chasing us with a knife. Really, only the Ice students try hard to succeed, where apparently grades are extremely important and competitive. I'm glad I didn't test Ice, for I've been told so kindly by me thirteen-years teacher that I have "a lack of application to the subject at hand." Truthfully, I don't see why I need to apply myself when the ghastly truth of Borg and his Enterprises are out lying around for all to see.

My first class is Mathematics. I set down my bookbag next to my chair and pull out the standard-issued blue binder for the subject, then my stylus, setting it neatly on top of the binder. A Light girl, the sun symbol adorning her tunic, sits in the chair next to mine, flipping her blonde braid around as she turns. Lights are stereotypically stuck up, but I know this girl, Mandy, and she's all right. A Light boy sits behind her, a tousle-haired kid who's rather short for his age. He, too, doesn't seem all that bad. It seems to be the Light student's only job to antagonize the Darkness, but there are anomalies in every element. The test is flawless, of course, but sometimes one can't help but wonder if some were destined for a different path.

Mandy begins to chat with the short boy behind her and I turn away, twisting my stylus between my thumb and forefinger thoughtfully. I don't have much time to think, though, for soon our instructor enters, a tall, tanned Ice man named Professor Ramon. He didn't fit my mold for Ice at first, with his strong, stocky build and athletic looks, but from day one it was clear he was no-nonsense and tough as nails. Even the most troublesome Fire kids steer a wide path around him, knowing if they act out in the smallest way they'll end up plastered against a wall. Professor Ramon stands in front of the classroom and we all snap to attention, a few Lightning boys untangling themselves from a wrestling match on the floor and standing next to their desks meekly. When Ramon speaks his voice is harsh and to the point.

"Today we have the pleasure of watching a live video feed from Cyrus Borg himself." What the President would want with us is a mystery to me, unless he's briefing us about the upcoming Games. "I want to remind you all to pay attention to his information and to not disobey during the presentation." As if any of us would with him standing there right in front of us. "Any questions? Good. The film will begin in a moment."

As if on cue the lights dim automatically and the shutters fall with a bang down on the windows. The overhead screen slides down from its perch at the front of the room and when it is fully extended the overlarge face of President Borg appears on its surface, rippling in the soft wind coming from the air vents.

"Hello, students! I am delighted to see all of your faces smiling back at me!" He is too cheerful, too excited. Something about him repulses me; he doesn't seem quite human. "I'm sure you all are wondering why I'm visiting you today. I've decided to officially inform you about the soon-to-arrive Hunger Games!" Many of us sigh, recalling the dull propaganda speeches usually given at this time. "To inform the new students, let me show you a short film on Ninjago's great history!" Great? I put a hand to my mouth to suppress a sneer. Ninjago is and was many things. Perhaps it was great at some time. But now…

Borg's face disappears and is replaced by a picture of a city like the ones we study in history, a city clearly in its prime, with a nice park in the middle and citizens milling about the streets, carefree. So this is what life was like back then, I think. Were they truly free? Did they abide by some contract, forced to submission? "Ninjago City, a city formed by its citizens, thrived in peace for many millennia." A voice-over supplies information as pictures flash across the screen, those of smiling kids with gaps between their teeth and satisfied adults smiling for the camera. "A young man named Cyrus Borg found promise in this city and stabilized its government, school systems, and general welfare." Sounds like _deus ex machina to_ me, the usual stuff they feed the new thirteen-year-olds for their first Games. "Yet Borg's peace was fractured by an attack by the skeletons, who were quickly and efficiently dealt with. An ancient race called the Serpentine followed in the skeleton's footsteps, only to be obliterated." The images now showing were of war, of men with guns and armor, of tanks, and of a huge smoking crater, presumably the Serpentine base. "Cyrus Borg showed us that we are unstoppable, that we are the people that can achieve anything! A new city rose, New Ninjago City, a town of technology and innovation, a town of the future." A few Ice students gasp appreciatively as photographs of New Ninjago City are shown, with flying cars and huge skyscrapers and machinery at every corner. "Yet Borg was challenged again, this time by an unexpected and powerful force, more powerful than ever imagined – his own people." They knew something. The citizens knew what a monster Borg really was, what he was capable of, what he did… "In an epic struggle our hero brought down the rebellion of the people, then called for a new order, a new era of peace never before seen to man – peace by element, a project he had been working on for years." I curl my fingers into a ball. I am Darkness, separate and ostracized by the other elements. We have peace, yes, but not unity. Unity breeds rebellion. No elements are together, bonded, on the same "team." The mastermind as always, Borg raised us to grow in company of one another, not to mingle with the others. And, the mastermind as always, his plan worked.

"Our leader set up a system that all families and adults would be given a test of sorts to see if they had a certain aptitude to one of the nine elements: Fire, Earth, Air, Ice, Lightning, Light, Darkness, Metal, Water, or, if an individual displayed promise in two or more elements, All-Element. The families were moved into the recently-built Complex, with sections for each element, and given jobs also based on their aptitude." My mother was a factory worker, doing simple paperwork, nothing important, a third-class. "This system showed great results in the first few years of its usage, but soon major flaws became evident." Big surprise there, I think, keeping my hand over my mouth and the other in a fist at my side. "The children of the elementally tested parents often displayed a different aptitude to the parent element. It became clear that the children would also have to be tested." Children, now, were showed on the screen, entering the top-secret testing grounds we all were escorted to at thirteen. Oddly enough, they all looked confident and were smiling. Obviously this program is fake, but this seems over the top. Even the thirteens will notice the irregularities from their actual experience to this one. "Children with different aptitudes were granted permission to stay with their parents until age nineteen, when all who come of age receive their own living quarters and occupations from Borg Enterprises." A happy-looking teen, his elemental badge cleverly concealed, pops up next, and reaches out a hand to take a set of dangling keys from Cyrus Borg himself. "This new system, giving our youth a new chance at belonging and tradition, still stands today." The teenager with the keys is replaced by an image of handsome boys and pretty girls, one from each element, all huddled close in what appears to be a friendly scene, with them all laughing and smiling. I wrinkle my nose as I look at the platinum-blonde girl representing Darkness – Borg couldn't be more off.

"But all good things come with a price, and infractions of the rules must be punished." Back to the wartime photos, with the rebels against Borg's forces. "In order to atone for their actions, each elemental ward must put forth two tributes, a boy and a girl, to compete in the annual Hunger Games." Reaping images flashed like bullets on the projector screen, of boys and girls of different age, height, and skin tone ascending the stage in the enormous Auditorium in the center of the Complex. "Eighteen tributes representing each element will then be shuttled to the Arena after a week's stay in the Borg Enterprises Tower. When they enter the Arena they will then fight to the death. Winning means eternal glory, a representation of the prowess of your element, and the courage and sacrifice you have displayed in the process of becoming a champion will be broadcasted for all the world to see. In five days' time the Reaping will commence in the Auditorium. Notifications will be posted in each room." Borg is back now, smiling down at us with a cold look in his eyes. "There's nothing to fear." His voice is soft, a feeble attempt at a paternal tone. "The Hunger Games are a privilege! I hope to see you all well at the Reaping! Good luck! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" With a click, he's gone. Just like that.

I'm in such a blind rage that it's somewhat of a miracle I blunder my way into my next class, History. _A privilege? I'll show them a privilege! _Scowling, I thrust my satchel into my seat and toss my stylus onto my desk with such fervor that it rebounds off the wooden surface and onto the floor. This only darkening my mood, I reach down to grab it only to find it in the hands of a thirteen-year-old boy still packing up after class. "Here." He says rather timidly, eyes flickering as they always do to the Darkness badge on my tunic. "Thanks," I say surprised, and catch a glimpse of the All-Element badge on his bookbag, matching his golden hair. "No prob," He replies, still a little scared-looking, and jogs out of History to his next class, whatever that may be. I sit in my chair thoughtfully, mulling over my encounter with the blond thirteen. Maybe Borg is wrong. Maybe his plan has a flaw in it. Perhaps it is not so impossible for two elements to connect. Perhaps we Darkness aren't such outsiders after all.


	5. Chapter 5

**As you can probably tell, the 4-person cycle has gone round again. I think there may be one time where it changes, but otherwise it'll be regular. But for now, onto our lovable Lloyd... **

**Also - comments and thoughts are welcome! Thanks for the reads, too, it means a lot :)**

**And so... Onward! We now turn our attention to Lloyd.**

_Chapter Five – Lloyd_

_I'm not afraid_. The lie hurts, but I force it down and repeat the process, trying to staunch the overflow of panic clutching at my chest. _I'm not afraid_. I'll only have one name in the bowl. _I'm afraid, I'm afraid, I'm afraid! _One name is still a chance. There's a good chance, really, that I'll be chosen. My breathing is growing faster and choppier. _I'mafraidI'mafraidI'mafraid. _I clutch the hem of my tunic in a sweaty fist. The Games are in four days. I have plenty of time!_ I'MAFRAIDI'MAFRAIDI'MAFRAID_. What if they do choose me? I can see Pixal, Borg's spokewoman for the Reaping, dipping her hand in the pool of names and choosing mine, the single, carefully-lettered name of Lloyd Garmadon. It would be that easy. That simple. I can't fool myself. _I'm afraid._

All-Element has had victors in the past. I've never seen a Games when my element has won, though, which is discouraging, to say the least, but I know we've won before. I try to release my hand from my tunic, but it won't un-clench. I'm not going to be chosen – or am I? I only have one name – that's enough! I'm going to be fine – when I wind up dead! We've learned about schizophrenia in class, and this must be what if feels like, calm versus panic, each eating away at each other, fighting for control.

Slowly, my hand releases the hem of my clothes. My breath returns, steady and regular. I'm vaguely aware that I'm cold, but my fingers are so numb it could be anything else. General body control comes next. I'm in a tight ball, kneeling upright in a dark corner who-knows-where, watching as the blackness dances away from my vision and displays the scene in front of me.

I know my location now – I'm in a secluded corner under the stairwell at school. Judging by the sounds of laughter and the scuffling of shoes, we're still at recess. The relief at freedom from my fear is replaced by a sense of curiosity and emptiness. What happened? How did I get here? Worst of all, though, I feel alone. Like I would in the Games, with no friends or trustworthy companions. Like I may feel in four days. Unable to bear it anymore, I claw blindly for the door, and, gripping the handle, kick open the door and stumble into the hallway, still regaining coordination after my moment of panic.

The day is surprisingly dark for recess, with a grey cloud cover dulling the usual glistening blue of the sky. The Waters can tell when a storm is coming, so I would ask them, but our self-inflicted social boundaries are too strong to cross. I turn my head left and right, looking for my element-mates, until –

Bang! A rubbery explosion echoes in my right ear as a kickball, catapulted by enormous force, slams into the side of my head. Caught unawares, I stumble but stay standing, whipping around to see a cluster of Lights, older teens, all guys, hooting with laughter and pointing at me. "Hey, Lo-ser! Stop lookin' around like an idiot and watch out for the balls!" "Something wrong, baby? Gonna cry?" The boys all mime rubbing their eyes and making overly dramatic crying sounds. A tight knot of anger pulls inside of me, but they're more than a match for me, so I roll my eyes and turn to go. Yet only as I have pivoted and step forward I run into a massive chest and bounce backward off of a very intimidating Light who must have snuck up behind me.

"Where ya think you're goin' baby? We're not done yet." He steps forward, obviously trying to make me back up into his other friends, but I stand my ground. "Tryin' to act tough, baby?" I sidestep and walk around him, setting off at a brisk pace which the Light jocks hopefully won't replicate. "Bye, Baby! Go home and cry to Mommy!" The waspish taunts of the Light teenagers still buzzing in my ears, I storm away.

Cassandra scoots over as I join her on the bench near the basketball courts, where a few Earth boys and girls are playing a pickup game. "Did you get in trouble with those Light doofuses?" She scoffs, a stray hair from her ponytail tossed back against her chin. "They're so full of themselves! Thinking they're the best element… Wouldn't a mastery of all elements be preferable?" I shrug, ear still smarting. "If times weren't so grave I'd make a Hunger Games joke." Cassandra can make it all seem so simple, less the horrible reality of the Games and more of a trap for a few annoying Lights. "If only it were that easy…" I groan. We watch the basketball game in silence for a little bit, admiring the shots of the players until the bell rings and Cassandra has to go to Science. "Bye!" she waves cheerfully at me as she picks up her All-Element marked satchel and jogs over to join the wave of kids heading to the Science wing. Really, she should be the one that is afraid. She has a worse chance than me of getting chosen to go to the Games. Maybe it's natural to be scared on your first year around. Borg's video sure didn't help. If anything, it only complicated the whole mess even more.

I'm not sure whether to believe what my teacher said those few minutes after class, or the approved, Borg-checked history methods I've learned since I was small. It would be easy for Borg to rewrite choice parts of history, his influence being so large and all. But there would be those who remember, those who lived during the time of the skeleton and Serpentine wars, those who, if anyone, know the truth. Adding to the muddle, my instructor who leaked the foreign information to me didn't show up today. Gone. Is she on a trip? Dead? Worse? It seems strange to imagine Borg, savior of the nation, killing off teachers. Would he go that far? Surely not.

If history was such a topic that was encouraged to be studied by Cyrus Borg himself, then why would he cover up his tracks so neatly? Maybe I'm just imagining things, the closeness of the Games messing with my brain a little bit. But it doesn't feel that way.

My bookbag lies with Brad's on the side of the school's longest wall with all the other bags, clustered by element – the Ice bags neatly lined up in rows, the Earth bags tossed in a veritable mountain of school supplies. All-Element is in the middle of all this, not messy but not totally neat, either. Brad is still playing tetherball, visible from my vantage point, and I'll be late if I wait for him, so I shoulder my pack and hurry into Composition class. The room's lights are off, so we must be watching a video today. I enter the classroom just as the doors slide shut, keeping any latecomers out until they get a hall pass. Quietly I take my seat in the back as the film begins.

Recaps of last year's Hunger Games are being played, nothing too bloody for our sake, but giving us a good look at the gorier aftermath of some more exciting battles. A tall Metal boy is sitting in front of me and I have to lean into the aisle to see, the bar of my desk cutting into my side. Last year's Games were hosted on a chain of large islands, with a tsunami coming in about a week in and for the finale, all of the islands erupting into active volcanoes. I watch now a tribute, maybe one of the final eight or so, dodges a plume of fire that shoots from a crevasse near his feet. With athletic grace he leaps to the next rock nearby, dangerously close to the precipice… too close, overshooting and rocketing off the cliff to certain death below. Even the Darkness kids wince at his screams as he plummets out of sight of the camera. Why they're showing the highlights of the Games is beyond me, but we continue to sit in silence as they play for thirty more minutes until the victor is crowned, a Metal boy with dark skin and cold eyes, causing a shout from all the Metals in the class, including the one in front of me. With a final fanfare the image fades into an interview with the victorious tribute, Branning.

"The feeling is amazing. I mean, I won! This is the best thing that's ever happened to me, easy. See you all in Borg Tower!" The victors live in Borg's private residences after their triumph in the Games. A new victor is on screen, a wily-looking girl with a thin face and stringy hair. "Victor. The title we all want to achieve. The title I possess now. Winning is worth it. Everything is worth it. You'll see." A tiny boy is next, who must have won a while ago because I don't remember him. "People used to tell me I couldn't do anything. Now… well, now they're too afraid to talk to me!" And on and on, victors talking up the glory of the Hunger Games. "You won't regret it! Volunteer, people! This is a once-in-a-lifetime change!" cries a perky-looking girl with a wide gesture to the camera.

"So you see," The voice-over makes us all jump, "The Hunger Games are a festival of glory, a ticket to fortune, a way to the respect you all deserve. So go on! Show us what you can do!" The Borg Enterprises seal blazes on the screen next, with the words "VOLUNTEER" glowing underneath. My Composition instructor takes this as a cue to stand and flick on the lights. In the electric glare the words hovering on the overhead screen seem less imposing, less of a demand. Applause fills the background of the video and hastily we all begin to clap too, though it seems unnecessary and a little weird. The film snaps off with a click and the overhead screen begins its ascent to the ceiling, as if nothing happened.

My instructor provides little explanation for the random video showing in class. "I had orders from President Borg to show you the video. I guess we'll start our unit on word choice tomorrow." I couldn't care less about word choice given the circumstances, but I nod seriously to my teacher and shove my stylus in my bag, then line up with the rest of the class at the door for dismissal.

Brad taps on my shoulder as he sidles into the crowd behind me. He must have come in during the film unnoticed. Taking up a pose of thoughtfulness, with a hand stroking his chin, he says, "You know? I'm really considering volunteering." I laugh despite myself, slapping his hand away from its stroking circuit. "Shut up." Brad nods. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. But honestly…" He lowers his voice and looks around shiftily. "What gives, Borg? Trying to get us to volunteer real hard, huh?" It's my turn to nod this time. "Guess so."

Our class is dismissed for the day, so Brad and I walk home together, discussing homework and weird element kids, anything but the Games. Brad has reached the apex of his description of his encounter with a Darkness in the dead of night one time in the woods, a story obviously fake, for all the doors in the Complex are locked during Curfew, when the twins join up with us, sporting wild hair and wide eyes. "We had the seventeen-year's Science instructor today!" Tony gasps. "He made the desk explode!" "The whole thing!" "Boom!" I lean forward to get a good look at Tony. "Where's our instructor?" Troy shrugged. "Dunno. Off not being AWESOME!" We laugh at this as Tony mimes the blast again and again with wild hand gestures, including those of shock from a gaggle of Water girls sitting in the front row. With thoughts of exploding desks on my mind I scan my student card and enter All-Element Atrium. A huge crowd of under school-aged children are running around the marble floors, playing tag. I think I catch a glimpse of Skye's long brown braid in the mix somewhere. Brad and I weave our way to the left staircase with some difficulty, trying hard not to step on any kids, then separate at the first concrete stairwell. "See ya!" Brad calls out to me as he climbs his staircase and I my own. I wave as he steps out of sight, then turn to the stairs ahead of me with a heavy heart.

When I was a kid life seemed easy, each day flowing into the next without a break. Now I wonder if I will see Brad again. Would it be that simple, a name in a jar separating us forever? A name in a jar sealing either of our fates? Who would be the last to cry, "See you tomorrow!" to the other? Melancholy, I reach the top of my staircase and scan my ID again. A name in a jar. Why can't it only ever be that?

**I think I'll drown in the foreshadowing, neh? We have chafing under Borg's regime...**

**Again, thank you sososo much for reading! You're the best**


	6. Chapter 6

**Three days to the Reaping, things are getting interesting... Lots of things can happen in a mere 72 hours.**

**If you are reading this, put your hand out and imagine me giving you a high-five. You guys deserve it, really! Thanks for all the reads.**

**But enough of reads and high-fives and such, now we go back to the Complex, back to Borg, back to the Hunger Games...**

_Chapter Six – Kai_

It was painfully obvious, and that's what bothers me. Such a large operation as trading could hardly go unnoticed. Borg must have known from the start about the rouge bartering outpost in his woods; it would be too obvious to miss. I wonder if we all knew it, the traders and merchants and I, if we knew deep down that it all eventually would end and we should enjoy it while it lasts. But why now?

That question worries me far more than any other proposed – why now? Besides the Reaping in only three days' time, nothing really is happening. It seems that he would use the annual horror of the Games to keep down any sparks of defiance, if any sparks of defiance actually burst into being. There was, is, no rebellion. We are subdued, and have been for as long as I can remember, which technically isn't that long, but time enough for a discontented trader to whisper things between deals, to sell of his plans, to get enough followers to stir up trouble. I've paid a good deal for rumors of rising rebels on multiple occasions, but none are true, legitimate. I've gotten back at the dealers in the meantime, but such trades seem criminal, especially with the insinuation of rebellion. People are not satisfied. That's why we trade, why we work, why we carry on with our lives obediently, because we are not satisfied, but can do nothing to aid our individual plights. My actions could be considered criminal, I suppose, but trading is a price many of us are willing to pay. Why it's been around so long without disturbance is a mystery to me, though. It seems as though Borg was hovering over our heads all the while, watching us do our business, feeling as though we were independent, separate, rebellious… while he scoffs at our naivety, then firebombs the whole place to teach us a lesson in liberty – and what fools we were to think we possessed it.

People died, too, part of the cipher I chose to ignore, that a fire of such magnitude could surely leave the ultimate destruction in its wake. The wounded, the dying, left alone in the woods to suffer. I was a coward. I fled.

I'm sitting in my room, with traded curtains drawn, curtains that block sight but not sound. The clicking of Nya's knitting needles penetrates the thick woven wool, reminding me that I am not alone. I have a job. A duty. Not to myself, but to others. I am not alone.

The curtains glide along their steel poles, opening with the familiar _whish_ that I know so well. Nya raises her head as I emerge, the scarf she began this morning now extending beyond her knees. "What do you think?" she asks, raising it, and I admire the way the blue fabric catches the light, with the thin trails of gold racing up and down the rivers of yarn like sunbeams. I nod and smile, probably less enthusiastic then I should be, but I have a lot on my mind now. Nya picks up her needles again, looking as if she wants to say something.

"I think you should go to school." "What?" The proclamation takes me completely by surprise. "I don't need to go to school! I learn more from -" "From trading, from a pastime that is no longer in action! You act really aimless, you need to do something!" I make an exasperated sort of grunt, but I know that she is right. Besides trading, there is nothing really else to do other than school, and it must be pretty time-consuming if the students don't get bored and begin to think for once. "You won't go!" Nya again raises her scarf. "I have a job, remember? You don't anymore. So, go do something!" As much as I hate to agree with her, she's right. My job was trading, and now that that has been eradicated, I have no duty, and, technically, I'm supposed to go to school, but that's a different matter altogether. Nya is right, as usual.

"Fine! Fine! I'll go to school!" A feeling of bondage comes over me, a new kind of slavery – school. Ugh. "Good! Now, go with the other Fire kids! You'll be late!" I roll my eyes. She sounds so much like mom sometimes. "Why do I feel like you get the better end of the deal? And if there's no trading, why are you weaving a tradable item?" "Because something as big as trading won't stay out of order forever. Now, go!" She's right – again.

My first impression of my fellow Fires are that they are loud and rowdy and ignorant. We all walk as one group, me on the outskirts, observing them. The center of the pack is dominated by a cluster of guys, no older than me, all with girls clutching their arms and giggling, all with brown hair and dark eyes, all shouting and cracking jokes and throwing insults at other elemental wards as they walk along. As part of Fire, I feel somewhat entitled to stay with the group, but I watch the Darkness wards standing alone and long to join them. With the eye of a trader I add them up, judge them against anyone I've seen before, tributes or parents or merchants, coming up with IQs, levels of athleticism, and general threat – a Hunger Games mentality. Though the popular boys seem fast and strong, they are distinctly less intelligent and balance out evenly with the others. My elemental companions have brawn, not brains.  
I remain unnoticed all the way to school, into the classroom, and all throughout the extent of morning classes, which are incredibly easy and some, like History, downright wrong. We have a sort of code in trading, a sort of Word, a measure of honesty among the merchants, because we can rob each other at will and be robbed at the next turn. I've learned much history in my day, whispered facts, stories of battles, scrolls sealed with wax with battle plans, maps, symbols etched in wooden panels small enough to fit in your hand – all history, all truth, or more truthful compared to the trash I learn here in school. I glance around to see if any other students are as confused as I am at these lies, but they seem unaffected, tossing spitballs at each other or lazily taking down notes. To pass the time I examine the other wards, all perfectly balanced on levels of danger, too perfectly to be natural, almost too perfectly to be a trade cipher. Is this Borg's life's work, his magnum opus – a delicate yet impeccably accurate percentage of each element, leaving the Games solely up to the tributes? Surely not. But… Perhaps?

I emerge from my shroud of invisibility only after lunch, during our free period. The Fire clan, as I like to think of them, or rather, us, go out to the field behind the school, where we break off to go play kickball, soccer, basketball, or go pick on other kids. I stand there for a moment, summing up the different elements over a broader age range. Still, there's the balance, the equality, the perfect symmetry. My brow wrinkles with concentration and confusion, and I scan the yard again, taking careful notice of every factoring detail, every nook and cranny, every loophole. Still, perfect. Scowling, I follow a group of Fire kids to the soccer field, where we play against the Light students, who are strong, fast, and smart, yet lack in endurance and general skills but rather specialize in certain talents. I use my trading averages to remain perfectly ordinary, not scoring, touching the ball a specified amount of times, weaving out of sight when someone looks. I don't know why, but I prefer to remain anonymous here at school, to remain separate in this place of unity, distinct in this place of community. We play soccer for a while, beating the Light team 2-0, then walk over to basketball, a sport I find that I genuinely like and am pretty good at. Our element's interests turn sour after basketball, though, and we begin to pick on the littler kids from the weaker wards, like Ice or Air. These wards lack in power and strength, which is probably why my ward bullies them, as we have such a surplus of it. Even though the members of Fire don't trade, they can sense the weakness of these students and single them out. Even though it's not that hard, from a trading perspective it's noteworthy, data I could you who-knows-when but that's useful enough all the same.

I choose to separate myself from the Fire pack and walk off to go shoot some more baskets, when I see two All-Element boys, both blond, playing one-on-one. "Mind if I join?" I ask, towering over the kids. They pale visibly and gulp, eyes flashing to my Fire badge. I grab a ball and shoot and easy three-pointer. "You two versus me. C'mon." Whether they're too terrified to object or decide I'm all right, probably the former, they nod and get in defensive position. I take the ball back and dash through them, scoring a layup, the All-element kids not ever trying to stop me. I turn on them and toss the ball to the taller of the two, who catches it in surprise. "You get ball." The kids run back to half-court and pass the ball timidly to one another. I let them score, hoping it will boost their morale, and it does, as they both grin to one another and prepare to defend me. I bounce the ball high, feigning ineptitude, and they advance one me. At the last second I spin around them, bouncing the ball with ease, and fly upward into the air for the shot. "Whoa!" The shorter boy cries out, then glances around as if he has broken some kind of rule. I grin at the duo. "Your ball."

During the duration of our game I learn more and more about the All-Element kids. Their names are Brad and Lloyd, with Lloyd being the taller of the two, and they both have pretty nice families in All-Element. In turn I tell them about myself, lying about my parents and family, because Lloyd admitted his dad is pretty high up in Borg Enterprises and I can't have anyone know too much about myself. We warm up to one another, joking and laughing, and I can tell they're surprised that the Fire guy is playing basketball with two unimportant kids. Lloyd and Brad are nice, though, and also innocent, prime examples of Borg's loyal followers. I don't like it, but I find myself recording their data, their levels of dependency, independence, and patriotism versus mine. Once a trader, always a trader – I see it even in basketball, lining up shots, angles and corners, distance multiplied by time. Yet Brad and Lloyd are more than data. The world is more than data.

Or is it?

The recess bell rings and I bid adieu to the All-Element kids and blend back into the Fire pack to continue classes. The day ends quickly and I remain, still, no one amongst my ward. Even on the way home, whilst the jocks reenact the beating-up of a young boy they caught poking around the bookbags, I'm not given a second look. It's nice, this camouflage, this hiding in plain sight, no more belonging than concealing. We enter the Fire Atrium with much bravado, separate with loud shouts and secret handshakes involving rude hand gestures, then walk off on our own or in twos and threes, still talking. My entire ward can't surely be like this all the time, loud and noisy and distinctly air-headed. Surely there are some people here who think, who learn, who see. I wonder if there are those who do think. Or has Borg made us so uniform, so perfectly similar, that there are no exceptions? Except for me. Except for the traders. But then again, he has allowed that.

Nya is waiting for me at the door, a bundle of scarves in her hands and smiling. "How was it?" She asks expectantly as I take off my boots and hang my satchel on its hook near the door, where it stood unused for years prior to this day. "Eh… Classes are monitored. I played basketball." Nya reads my short sentences with the ease of practice. "I see… History? How was it?" I toss her a glare. "What do you think?" She laughs. "Terrible, I assume. The most carefully pruned class of them all." "You got that right." Nya lowers her eyes to her work. "I… asked around. For trading, you know." I whip around to face her. "You did what?!" Such questions could lead to imprisonment or even death. I can't lose Nya. Not now. Not after Mom. Not after Dad. She's the last person I have left. "It took… some trading. Not much!" She glances at me, worried. Hopefully her relation to me would let the traders respect her to some degree, but still, we can be ruthless at times. "They were fine. Scared, too. I'm no trader, but even I could tell." It makes sense that the merchants would be frightened. Their friends died that day, perhaps clinging to their satchels of supplies as they watched the flames bore down upon them. "So the traders are back?" The question is rhetorical, but useful to keep my mind out of the old trading outpost. "Yes, but they're not permanently settled. Every day it changes. You practically have to sell your soul to find out where." Nya giggles lightly, a sound childish and yet pleasant, not at all reflecting the sister I know. "I should go look for them." I say, my voice somewhat loud in the dim silence of the room. "If anyone finds them, it'll be you." Nya says encouragingly, then drops her scarves into a basket and pulls out a pot for making dinner. I watch her as she draws spoons and herbs out of the cabinets that line our self-proclaimed kitchen area, her hands moving with unerring skill over the soup bowl. She's right, I could find the traders easily. But something holds me back – the feeling of change, a difference, a rift that has formed and seems unable to be bridged – a chasm formed after that day. Trading will never leave me, it's become part of who I am. And yet it seems different now, foreign, alien… strange.

I turn to my bookbag, eyeing its Fire emblem, the bright threads entwining themselves, reaching upward in the familiar Fire shape. I will be returning to school tomorrow. I am still separate, still individual, still an outsider, not tied to the building due to work or necessity but rather to learn what it really can offer. The data it can give, the ciphers and solutions it can produce, are enormous. But Brad and Lloyd are not code. People are not code. Borg may think so, and that will be his downfall. We will always surprise, always excite, always break the heavily forced mold. Maybe that's what makes the Games so exciting – a show of individuality, a show of differences, and, in and of itself, an act of rebellion.

**I don't think Kai is alone in the realm of school-haters... A show of hands, if you please? **

**Keep reading, my friend... Things are about to get interesting. ;)**


	7. Chapter 7

**A realization of mine - Wu's chapters are generally shorter. Despair not, they'll get longer in the future... The feeling of knowing what others don't is oddly satisfying, is it not? *evil laugh***

**Apparently everyone's favorite riddle-speaking tea drinker is good with computers... You know how it goes, roll with it. **

**Presenting... Chapter Seven!**

_Chapter Seven – Wu _

I've been fighting the malware for days now, hands cramped from their post on the keyboard, ever watchful for the jabbing attacks from the virus that has infested the odds for the Games. As the day of the Reaping creeps nearer, now only two days away, the wild blows from the hacker have become more and more violent. I don't understand why Borg has infected his own system, and it can't be a trader, as the coding is too complicated. Some things, it appears, are beyond even my own knowledge. Grinning, or rather gritting my teeth in anticipation for another go at the virus, I focus my bloodshot eyes on the screen and dive in.

Almost immediately I'm attacked with a barrage of half-formed codes that I bat away with relative ease. Each one falls to the "ground" of the cyberspace, sending off bits of jumbled letters and numbers like a faulty wire shooting off sparks. Three missiles of heavily-packed digits come next, but I shoot them down with cypher-projectiles of my own. The virus' core grows steadily closer as I traverse the minefield set for me, dodging explosions of anti-ciphers and malware thrown at me from every direction. I gain ground, tossing codes like grenades into the packs of zeroes and ones assailing me. My fingers are blurred on the keyboard, each letter typed with flawless accuracy, each numeral precise.

As I retaliate I think about the advice given to me by Garmadon, advice so obscene and desolate I couldn't help but laugh at its proposition. The technology hadn't been touched in years, making it, stereotypically, the perfect alternative to my type-marathons. But the infrastructure is too unstable; it was and still is today. People died. People still die today. A monstrosity, unfit to be useful in society. If it works, though… the possibilities of an alternate universe, an alternate reality, a place to keep those with power safe… and those dangerous even safer, the ultimate pastime. It sparks questions, of course, confusing questions of reality and truth. But confusion is a risk to take. Confusion is a risk they will take, a risk taken daily. The thought of it, in operation on test subjects even as unstable as it was, seems unfair. But if it works…

My hands fly across the keys, the click-click-click oddly aesthetic and pleasant. I'm nearing the core with each second is spend typing, but the attacks are fiercer and soon I know I'll have to give in. The world is fading away now, and I have eyes only for the monitor, sound drifting into the abyss of concentration. I'm fighting now. We have finished toying with each other, the hacker and I. Now we begin.

Explosions to the right of me. Explosions to the left of me. Every inch I progress across the cyberspace, every step across our battlefield, the fight grows harder. My code-drones fall to the ground beside me, and I take no time to repair them. A buzzing fills my ears, but I ignore it, bearing down on the keyboard with ferocity and power. This is his domain. But I can fight for it. My forward motion slows as I fend off blows ricocheting at me from every angle. The technological missiles have evolved into real ones. This has become war.

We have our scuffle, the hacker and I. The fruitlessness of my progression begins to weigh my hands down. This is his world, his ordained territory, his rules. The screams and crashes of warfare, real battle, echo throughout my office, making the walls reverberate with the sounds of fear. Of strife. Of justice. I know not who is right, who is wrong, who is evil and who is good, who is the hero and who the antagonist. I am moving, blocking, shoving my way through the ranks of coded infantry, shoving my blade of digits into the soldiers' sides, cutting down the cavalry, shooting flares into the sky. But the end is near. I can feel it. So can he, and the attacks become even more explosive. More dangerous. More real.

I can sense it before it happens – the lone soldier behind me raised his sword and stabs it through my back, bursting my super-hero into a thousand fractals of crystallized code. I can feel the laughter of the hacker, leaning back in his chair, observing with the eye of a master as all of my forces are demolished, annihilated, beaten into dust. With trembling hands I move away from the monitor, senses returning, and a crushing weariness overtaking me. I swivel in my seat just in time to see the ominous letters flash across the screen for an infinite yet infinitesimal instant, words that confirm both my hopes and fears, conceptions and fantasies.

GAME OVER.

**The game over screen is always the saddest... But what game is Wu really playing? (See, I can be cryptic too)**


	8. Chapter 8

**One day more until the Reaping! *cues Le Mis* **

**See what you think of our characters after this!**

_Chapter Eight – Ming_

The day before is always the worst. Kids are talking to each other in hushed whispers, the braver ones joking about their own Reapings, the cowardly choking out strangled good-byes in the instance that they are chosen. Picked. Selected. Honored.

I don't have anyone to say goodbye to, not really. Living alone has its ups and downs. You don't get attached to anyone, so you don't have to face the pain of letting them go. In my opinion, it's the better option. More of an even playing field, making sure you have feelings for no one other that the heavily imposed and adopted prejudices. Everyone else lives in community, grown with a sense of togetherness, alliance, family. In Darkness, we are alone yet together. We are all outsiders, so we are all insiders. People think the reason Darkness tributes are so ruthless in the Games are because we have been beaten as kids, trained, brainwashed even. Their speculation is cause for humor, I suppose. We are distinct, never together yet really never alone. Companionship is not a burdening sack that weighs us down. It is the absence of companionship that lightens our load.

Observing my classmates, I'd say we're all nervous, even at the age of fifteen, the horror of the Games only more evident as we mature. The Fires are subdued somewhat, some even sitting quietly and not talking. The Lightning students are even more nervous and jumpy as usual, cracking bad jokes about games and the Games, tributes and tribulations, making puns, trying to stir even a feeble laugh from their somber audience. We Darkness sit quietly, reflectively, indistinguishable from the other silent students sitting around us from different elements. I try not to, but I find myself lining up random students against myself, seeing who, in a fight, would win. Some of the Earth or Metal kids look intimidating, but I could take any of them out in an instant. My secret burns inside me, making my throat dry. It may just be the nerves, but we're all nervous. No matter how hard one can pretend, it's just the truth. The truth forced upon us by Borg, though, or the truth itself, the truth borne of human nature?

Not a single person talks all class, save some smart-aleck Ice students who answer all the questions with a smug look on their faces. I find myself wishing they would all be Reaped and chide myself silently. I'm sure if I was a genius Ice kid I would do the same, and people would want me gone for it, too. We all want each other gone, though, all the competition to sprout wings and fly away. We want peace. We get war.

A depressed feeling descends like a shroud over the entire school complex. We all walk with heads down and hunched shoulders, avoiding each other's gaze, yet trying to remember faces and names, wondering if the girl or boy you just walked past will be dead in a few days' time. The kids who take it the worst are the thirteen-years, huddling up in groups in front of their classes, looking as if they can hardly keep it together. I'm walking past a bench when a mousy-haired Metal girl bursts into tears where she sits. The other students cast her looks of disdain and keep walking. I pause for a moment, staring at the girl, at the fear and hopelessness in her eyes, the desperation, the look that I felt so similarly the day my mother died. To even my utter shock, I sit next to the sobbing Metal, then bend down to tie my shoe.

"It's going to be okay." The words are natural on my tongue, slipping out before I even know it. To heck with boundaries, to heck with Borg's divisions. I will help this girl.

"You'll be all right. Honestly." The Metal girl, miniscule even for her young age, stops crying abruptly and gawks at me, eyes looking for my badge. "You only have one name. You won't be chosen." The girl takes a shuddering breath, and the tears on her cheeks are thrown into relief as she faces me. "Y-Y-You think so?" "I know so." I don't recognize my voice, harsh and firm and surprisingly believable. The Metal stares at my badge as I straighten, eyes widening visibly as she catches sight of the Darkness emblem. "But what if I do?" This I can't deny, there is always the chance she will be picked. Picked to be honored. How lucky we are. "Then may the odds be ever in your favor, kid." I stand and nod in the girl's direction, shoulder my bookbag, and walk down the hallway to History. The last glimpse I get of the Metal girl is that of her staring into the distance with a look of blatant wonder of her face, no longer crying, giving off an aura of, curiously, peace.

In History we get another little movie from Borg Enterprises, this time of the making of the test. "In order to properly sort children of age thirteen into their correct elemental wards, a test was formed to judge a thirteen-year's aptitude to elements. The test itself is highly classified, but flawless, and students report their test came back absolutely correct and were sorted into the perfect element." I remember my test like it was yesterday. Being ushered into a dark room. Standing quietly for a moment. Then the test began, first with simple athletics stuff like agility ladders and pull-ups, things we would eventually in Physical Education. Next came more serious evaluations, testing our reflexes with computer-generated images of bullets coming at us, our speed as a mutated wolf chased us though a plain of tall grass, our stamina when forced to swim across a bitterly cold pool to the other side. The images still came though, morphing into more personal and taking more dangerous shapes. My mother waved at me from afar before getting taken away in a hovercraft. I had to ball my fists and hold my breath to keep from bursting out and revealing my secret to the testers. Monstrous beasts loomed over me, their teeth like daggers. When the terrifying creatures faded away and I was ushered out of the room I snapped. I used the gift. Surely Borg knows now, surely I am doomed to a fate in the Games. He has spared me so far, though, but why? So I can work for him in his pretty little tower, wearing lipstick and pencil skirts like a secretary? How will he use and abuse me? Moreover, why hasn't he begun?

Once History is over I have free period, which I would spend in the library or something but all the books are Borg-approved and there's nothing much to read anyway. Instead I go out to the outdoor area, where most of the school congregates, and take out my lunch, simple bread and cheese. Many are less fortunate here, the students will sunken cheeks and hollow eyes, the ones who never bring lunches at all. Somewhat guiltily, I take a bite of my sandwich. I feel like I should be sharing what surplus of food I have with the other hungry kids – but then again, there's not much to share.

Trouble never ceases to find me, and when I look up again four Metal boys are staring down at me, smiling cruelly. "What's up, Darkness?" They sneer and shove one another as if they've made some clever joke. "Where'd you get the food? Steal it?" Again they laugh. A small crowd has come to watch, mostly the younger kids, peering over the Metal teenagers' shoulders, trying to get a glimpse of their prey. "Go on. Tell us ya stole it." I lean back coolly, feigning indifference. "And why would I do that?" The leader of the pack looks suddenly lost and glances at his comrades. Apparently this gang's prey doesn't sass them. "Cause ya did. Say it!" One of the smaller guys speaks up, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Well, I didn't. So I won't." I narrow my eyes and glare at the gang, not with menace but rather distaste. "We know you did. We saw you." I raise an eyebrow at the boys and laugh a little. "Excuse me for saying so, but I hardly find that plausible." And I take a bite of my sandwich.

The gathered crowd murmurs and grows still, as if this is one of Borg's movies and they're just watching it in History. "All Darkness are thieves." The tallest guy snarls. "And who told you that? Cyrus Borg?" A gasp of horror fills the quiet playground. Even I am surprised. I have never spoken out loud against Borg before, at least not for anyone to hear. You might as well be shipped off to the Games if you do. Like I just did. No surprise who the Darkness female tribute is now. To add to the insult, I smirk at the gang members and eat more of my sandwich, watching the crowd out of the corner of my eye. The motion is so quick that I almost miss it, yet still react too late. The smallest gang member grabs the front of my tunic and hoists me off my feet. With a cry I begin to punch and kick every inch of him I can react, but his friends grab my arms before I can do any real damage.

"Take it back! Take it back, you lousy, cowardly scumbag!" The Metal student yells, teeth bared menacingly. "Why? You love him?" I spit back, struggling wildly to free my limbs. This fight has gotten out of hand and ideally someone would intervene, but it's been a long time since free period was monitored. "Take it back, Darkness!" "Why should I? You can't deny it, can you?" The first blow to my face stings and I gasp with pain. In moments I taste blood and thrash even harder, but the grip of the Metal boys' hands is just too strong. "We'll teach you what happens to your type." I don't know if he means Darkness or insubordinate students, but the threat is a powerful one all the same. With a wicked grin he steps back, then cracks his knuckles. The crowd of students is silent. No one will come to save me. I see the small Metal girl I comforted today at the front of the crowd. Our eyes meet, and I send her one message – _please_. But she turns and blends into the throng of teenagers.

Even in Darkness, I have never felt more alone.

The smallest Metal gang member faces me again, then his audience. "This is what happens to those who insult Borg!" For an inexplicable instant I only feel pity for the boy. _He really does trust Borg, doesn't he_? "She deserves punishment. Justice, like Borg gave us." _Justice?_ I bite my lip to keep from shouting at the crowd. _Did Borg give us justice? Is this peace?_ "She gets what she deserves!" He repeats, then turns to me, fist ready. I don't look to the crowd again. I am Darkness. I am alone.

The Metal boy's eyes glint with evil pleasure as he faces me. "It's a shame. You're none too bad looking. Not after today, though." In retaliation I spit at him, my blood covering his face, blinding him. In the moment I lash out, kicking him in the groin, and he buckles, groaning. But the other guys take control again, and the tallest one takes the spot where the smallest now kneels. The second slap hurts almost as much as the first, but this time I am defiant. I have acted. "You are a disgrace to this system! You'll pay for it!" I look into his eyes, the cold, black, unfeeling pits. "Go to the Underworld." He raises his hand for the next blow and I close my eyes, waiting… But it doesn't come.

"Leave her alone." A voice I don't recognize issues from the crowd, and I open my eyes to see a boy standing at the front of the assembly, maybe sixteen, with long spiky brown hair and dark eyes burning with anger. His badge reads Fire, which confuses me even more. Why would a Fire jock stand up for a Darkness outcast? The Metal teenager does a double take. "Uh – What?" "I – said… leave – her – alone!" Every syllable of the Fire boy's sentence trembles with a commanding, ringing force. The Metal gang leader faces him now, crossing his arms. "You wanna go, smart guy? Huh? You wanna fight for your girlfriend?" The Fire crosses his arms to in a mocking gesture. "So be it." He declares. The Metal teenager chuckles, loosens up his shoulders and strikes. I expect the Fire kid to fall to the ground, to take the punch, or to at least dodge it. I'm in no way prepared for what happens next.

_The Fire boy catches the Metal's fist._

In a single deft motion, the Fire raises his hand and grips the gang leader's hand as it powers towards him. He does not react, as if he was catching a kickball rather than the hand of an extremely strong attacker. The crowd yells and gasps; a few even cheer. The Metal fights hard to release his hand, but the Fire boy's grip is strong. I can see the indents his fingers make in the fist of the Metal teenager, red and painful-looking. With a grunt the Metal gang leader rips his fist away and massages it gently, gawking at the Fire, who stands calmly in front of him, unmoving. The Metal calls the Fire a couple of foul names and glares at him, hand still red with fingerprints on it. "Kid wants to play? We can play." My eyes widen and I kick back at the boys who hold me as one of them joins the gang leader's side. "Let's start this off nice. The name's Oz." The Fire snorts. "Like the wizard?" I remember the book on the shelf in the library, a book by L. Frank. Baum, a story of a girl who goes to a green city or something like that. Borg-approved. Oz apparently doesn't get the reference, because he sneers and doesn't respond, just tries to crack his knuckles of his injured hand and winces. "So, pretty boy. You wanna go? Huh?" The Fire just stands there stonily silent and intimidating. "What's your name, loser? Is that it? Mommy saw ya and thought you were a loser too?" The Fire smirks at him and remains quiet. "Loser it is then." Oz snarls again, then readies his fists. "All right, Loser. Show me what ya got." And the Fire boy just stands there, not moving, just smiling a half-smile, not even raising his fists.

Sensing weakness, the second gang member, a boy in my class named Icarus, steps forward and swings at the Fire. The boy catches Icarus' wrist and jabs his elbow down on the Metal's arm. The sound of the bone snapping echoes throughout the playground. Icarus screams in pain and collapses, but the Fire boy isn't don't yet. He swings his elbow around and in connects with Icarus' temple. The gang member's eyes roll back and he fall to the ground, motionless, right arm bent at a horrible angle. Oz steps backward, jaw dropped and mouth in a perfect "o," hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Look, man…" But the Fire grins at him, the look of anger in his eyes now a kind of dark power, and steps forward as Oz walks back. The Metal gulps and walks faster, but in a few swift strides the Fire has caught up to him and grips the front of his tunic. All fearsome traits that Oz displayed are totally gone – he whimpers in fear and shrinks away from the Fire boy. The Fire punches him across the face, sending him sprawling, the left side of his head already an angry red. Oz yelps in pain as the Fire swiftly kicks him in the ribs, surely breaking one or two of them, then leans down over him. Even though he speaks quietly, I can still hear him.

"Listen to me, you lousy excuse for a human being, you coward! _You will never do that again_. On my Reaping odds I swear I will get back at you every day if I have to, and believe me, it will be much more painful that our encounter today. _Do you hear me_?" Oz is speechless with fear, petrified. The Fire presses hard on a point on the Metal's neck and Oz moans in pain, then he, too, passes out, fading into the peace of unconsciousness. The Fire turns to the boys who hold me back, who let go immediately and flee, then faces the crowd. One look from him and every student, even the eighteen-years, run for their lives. As soon as they clear away he jogs over to me, where I sit on the ground, and kneels next to me.

"Go on. Just make it quick, if you have any chivalry." I scowl at him.

"What?" Every scrap of anger is gone from the Fire boy's face, replaced by genuine shock and confusion.

"You're gonna get me too, aren't you?"

"No!" he cries in disbelief. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"Why is that so hard to believe?" I ask, tone dripping with sarcasm.

"It doesn't have to be." He stands and offers me his hand. Reluctantly I take it, and he helps me up.

"Why did you do that?" I'm quiet now, sizing the Fire boy up, trying to discover his motives.

"You were being unjustly treated."

"What, are you some kind of superhero? Saving the world from evil?" For the first time since I've seen him, the Fire smiles.

"Kind of like that." I smile too, then glance to the school building.

"You'd better go. The school police will be here soon to help them." I jerk my head in the directions of Icarus and Oz. The Fire boy nods seriously.

"Will do. Got to go save some more innocent civilians." I roll my eyes.

"Go on then, super soldier." He nods and turns to leave, but only takes a few steps before he's facing me again.

"I don't think I caught your name." "Ming." I reply, a bit surprised. "And you?"

"Kai." He responds, and with a wave he runs off away from the school. I watch the clouds of dust he kicks up settle as I think. Kai. Perhaps he helped because he knew what I said wasn't all wrong. Perhaps he isn't like the rest of them.

Maybe he thinks. Like me.

**Soooo... What do you think? Please comment, your info is always valued! Thanks again for reading!**

**Oh! And I have a poll going of what I should write next. If you want to, submit an answer! Once again, your info (and opinion) is always valued!**


	9. Chapter 9

**I'm sure you're all ready for the Reaping by now... We start this chapter on Reaping morning. May the odds be ever in your favor!**

_Chapter Nine – Lloyd_

I awake with a subtle sense of foreboding pressing down on me, not the rush of panic I anticipated. The feeling is more of a dark premonition. I push myself up on my elbows, squinting in the darkness for the morning light that usually streams through our open windows, but find nothing. It must be before dawn. At any rate, I am up, and there's no chance of my going back to sleep, so I quietly rise and creep into the sitting-room area and collapse onto a couch, running a hand through my unruly hair.

So today's the Reaping. I anticipated more of an overwhelming fear to consume me, and that I would be wetting my pants by now, but instead I have a sort of flame of afraid-ness inside of me, steadily burning, a weight to be released at the call of the name of the All-Element male tribute – me or otherwise. The fear will be gone when I am chosen, nonetheless, the fear of being chosen itself, but surely it will be replaced by a new fear – the fear of the upcoming Games.

Leaning back on the overstuffed pillows, I sigh. If I'm chosen there's nothing really I can do about it. My mood of acceptance surprises me, but I remain calm as the hours tick nearer. The windows begin to glow as the light of the rising sun warms them. The rising sun that sentences eighteen kids to death. The sun that spares so many more for another year, though.

On principle, Garmadon and Misako are soon stretching and getting up, curiously quiet. It's my first Reaping, the first time they will gather in the Auditorium with genuine fear in their hearts, awaiting Pixal's call of the tribute while they clutch each other's hands. Will their hands release with relief when a different boy is called? Or will they tighten even more when they hear the cry of "Lloyd Garmadon!" I seem oddly prepared for my being Reaped, which is odd. But then again, the odds should be in my favor.

Skye still sleeps, her long hair drooping over her head as she rests. Let her sleep, I think. Let her know not of what happens today. Of what is to come. Mom and Dad are making breakfast, having not noticed me yet, and I see Dad pull out my tunic, now clean, and my shoes. My first real Reaping outfit – and perhaps my last.

But I won't be chosen. I take a deep breath and let it out confidently, stand, and walk over to Misako. "Good morning, Mother." She starts a bit at the sound of my voice, avoiding my gaze. "Good morning, Lloyd. How many eggs do you want?" The smell of cooking breakfast wafts towards me, but I barely notice it. "One, I guess." She nods, still not looking at me. "Do the students have to go early?" I ask, having not paid real attention during the Games videos. "Fifteen minutes. We'll be where you can see us." Misako finally looks up and smiles at me, tucking a loose strand of her long braid behind her ear. "I'm so proud of you, Lloyd." She whispers. Caught by surprise, I look at her curiously. "What?" "No matter what happens toady, your father and I still love you. And we are so proud." The standard I-love-you message before a Reaping, I assume. But it feels more like a warning. Like a goodbye.

We eat breakfast as a family as the sun creeps higher in its course in the sky. The eggs are tasteless, even though I accidentally upended the salt shaker and dumped salt all over them. Skye, now awake and dressed, tries to encourage our conversation, smiling and prompting us to speak. She doesn't know why we are silent today. She doesn't know what happens today. I envy her in that way. There's a burden in knowing and a freedom in ignorance. Skye knows not, and I envy her.

I take in perhaps my last look at the room, my home for all of thirteen years. The bedroom, where my sheets lay rumpled and my mattress-bed unmade. The kitchen, where the stove still steams. The couch I sit on now, with its never ending tessellations, an eternal pattern stretching on and on. Maybe the Games are a tessellation, too, with a victor and a Reaping and deaths galore. Again, the Games creep into my consciousness and I shove them away.

Garmadon notices my melancholy and looks up from his task of toying with his eggs. "Your mother and I will leave Skye with Brad's family. So it'll be just us." Why, though? The variables are stacking up and the scale is beginning to seem to tilt against me, the premonition growing darker, edging on black. Does Dad know something? I narrow my eyes, thinking. He would surely tell me… Unless…

"Time to go!" My mother seems overjoyed to break the somber meal and see me off. "Skye, we'll take you to Brad's in a minute. Lloyd, do you have your jacket? Good, we want you to look nice. Now, run along, we can't have you late!" Because if I'm late they'll send someone in to find me and imprison me for life. No, I think I'll go. "Bye, Mom! See you soon!" The sadness that fills her eyes is more evident than ever and the feeling of controlled fire-fear begins to burn wildly inside me, climbing towards my heart, threatening to take control. "Goodbye, son." Dad waves awkwardly and I copy his motion, then turn into the hallway, eyes trained on the golden carpet, more tessellations, more Reapings, more Games. Struck with a sudden idea I pivot and peek back into my room, then wish with all my heart I hadn't.

My mother is sobbing into my father's chest and he is calming her. "Shh, Misako, it's all right." "My son! Why him?" "It's okay! You know it is!" Which only makes her cry harder. Skye grasps my mother's pants leg. "Mommy, what is it? What's wrong?" My dad shushes her and grips Misako harder. "It's okay. Everything will be okay. Trust me."

Our last words exchanged were not a see-you-later conversation. They were a goodbye.

I meet Brad in the Atrium and we walk behind the fountain, where no kids splash today, and follow the other All-Element potential tributes, shoulders straight, into the doors to the Auditorium. I've been in the Auditorium before, but only when I was very small, and my memory doesn't serve a good enough depiction of the vastness of the space. The Auditorium is a gargantuan circle with a round stage in the middle. Stadium seating radiates out from the stage, climbing higher and higher and not ending but fading into blackness. There are nine "slices" in the seating, like the pies my mother makes on holidays like Independence Day, each representing a different element, black like the stage and floor and walls but with the element symbols stitched into the chairs and firm boundaries between each element's slice. The All-Element area lies directly right of the All-Element entranceway, so Brad and I check in with the proctor there, who turns out to be the sixteens' Math teacher. He takes a sample of our blood with a small device that I assume is what some of the working adults use when they gain access to their elemental ward in the Complex. It's amazing to think the Auditorium is contained in the Complex and doesn't take up the entire Complex altogether. Brad and I are cleared to go and we find our seats in the thirteen-years row, settle down, and sit quietly.

"So… This is the Reaping." Brad says quietly as we watch the other elements file into the Auditorium through their entryways. "I thought I would be panicking." "Me too." I reply, the blackness of my premonition lightening somewhat. "I'm nervous in a contained sort of way." Brad laughs and so do I, the feeling of the laughter like an antidote to the fiery fear that was close to running rampant only moments before. But I see the eighteen crystal balls on the stage, filled with names, names of the innocent, names of those undeserving of this wrath, and I stop laughing immediately. Those names could be mine. They could all be mine, for all it matters. A feeling of uncanny doom overtakes me. Am I destined for this? A death by the Games in my first year. Of course not! But that's what all the dead thirteen-year tributes would say, too.

Brad turns suddenly to me. "Lloyd, if I'm picked, tell my family I love them all, Take care of them, will ya? I mean, they would probably need some of my working wages when I turned nineteen. Promise you'll watch out for them." I nod solemnly. "I will. And you, mine?" Brad grins. "What else? I'll make sure Skye passes school and all that." I scoff ostentatiously. "She's smarter than you anyways!" Brad shakes his head as if mourning some tragic accident. "If you ask me, those Garmadon kids are none too bright…" "Shut up."

When we stop talking the reality of the Reaping sets in again. The fifteen minutes have nearly passed and all of the All-Element student seats are full. I look for Stephen and Cassandra, but their faces are lost in the rows of kids. Parents and siblings join the All-Element crowd, some with looks of intense fear on their faces, some even crying. I'm shocked at how quiet it all is, the only sound in the Auditorium the shuffling of boots on the floor and the whispers of the more sheltered thirteens who aren't terrified like the lot of us. All eyes are trained on the glass balls on the stage, the carefully folded name slips that read imminent death rather than the name of a tribute. I'm instantly rooted to the spot, paralyzed by the sight of the papers as it all really sinks in, through the layers of innocent banter with Brad and the walls I'd erected to keep it all out, through the fear-fire itself.

This is the Reaping.

And the odds don't really feel in my favor right now.

**I promise you, next chapter is the Reaping! Cliffhangers... dun dun dun. **

**For those of you who were wondering, we meet the other ninja in the next chapter. They won't have chapters dedicated to them, but we'll meet them... See what you think then.**

**To the readers who have read from day one - thank you! The waiting won't go on for much longer...**


	10. Chapter 10

**So... Finally, ****_finally, _****we have the Reaping. It's been a while, hasn't it? **

**Wondering who the tributes are? I won't delay your reading any longer! May the odds be ever in our characters' favor.**

_Chapter Ten – Kai_

I've never guessed how many people live in the Complex, but at Reapings and other gatherings one can get a good sense of the multitude who thrive under Borg's control. Tens of thousands of citizens rush into the Auditorium, claiming seats quietly and quickly. The entire process is silent, though, never a word of greeting spoken, never a shout of recognition. The horror of events to occur momentarily lay over the crowd like a smothering blanket. The Fire tribute-aged students are not entirely subdued, though, squirming around and poking each other and making faces. When the moment comes, however, they will be dead still. They will sit attentively and watch as the hand of Pixal dips into their glass bowl and pray that it's not them. Their prayers seem fruitless, I think. Even if anyone is listening it's not like they've ever done anything worthy of them being spared. It's hard to here, where there is no true right and wrong, good and evil, except for the lines drawn in heavy pencil by Borg Enterprises. The skeletons are the bad guys. Stick to your element. Don't talk out of turn. Rules, lines not to cross, morals to learn by – a carefully crafted civilization drawn from the civilizations before it. When the time comes the Fire tributes will pray. And nobody will listen.

Up until yesterday I hadn't thought I was worth sparing either. My small rebellion seemed worthless, as it was something I enjoyed and could gain from. Trading would be no reason to be spared, even if it was illegal. Up until yesterday I had never truly done anything good. Anything worthwhile. Anything truly rebellious.

The girl, Ming, had been talking, that I remember. It was foolish of her to say something, to publicly act out against Borg, but her words were truthful. Others surely thought so too. The gang of Metals behaved curiously when confronted with the words she said, though. They felt the need to act out against the rebel. They felt the need to punish her. That kind of instinct surely can't be bred or instilled easily. Which poses the question: What did Borg do to them to make them think that way? And why did he not do the same to the girl, Ming, or me? Maybe that's his plan, to give us a false sense of security by thinking we're separate, that we can stand alone, and then he takes us all over by means of some weapon or something. It seems far-fetched, but with Borg's influence and power and his freedom from limitations, anything could, quite possibly, be possible.

Nya is sitting a few rows behind me, glancing around the Auditorium as if trying to pick out who her competition will be if she is picked. Neither of us has taken tesserae, as I can get all the food I want from trading, so we're even with the richer kids name-wise. I can't imagine Nya in the Games, fighting for her life, having to kill boys and girls no older than her. It's always hard to imagine the girls in the Games – until they go on rampage and kill everyone. Girl victors are no more common than boys.

I wonder if the fifteen minutes has passed and look to the entryways just in time to see them close with a hiss, locked and impassible. There is no escape. The Auditorium has, quite literally, become the Arena. The doors are usually guarded, too, by the guards in black and red, the Hunger Games guards. But this year there are no guards. The doors remain alone. A feeling of dread fills me as I search for the guards who stand to usher the tributes onto the stage. They are nowhere to be seen.

What has Borg planned for us today?

Instead of Borg entering on his rising platform like he always does, nine individual screens lower from the ceiling like the overhead screens I saw during my brief period of time at school. Each one faces a different element. At the same time the clip plays and a loud, impressive voice announces, "A Message from Borg Enterprises!" The symbol for the company illuminates the screens. Slowly the symbol fades into blackness and is replaced by images of school police and the patrolmen at the Earth Market. "For decades our society has been protected by brave and valuable servicemen that have kept our world in union and peace." _More like brainwashed Borg enthusiasts_, I think. "Yet in the modern ages we call more a more uniform and flawless method of distribution of justice. We need the security of the most elite soldiers, the best detectives, and the most courageous policemen." A man in camouflage, a well-dressed taller woman in a long coat, and a school policeman with a baton wave at the crowd from the screens. "So here in Borg enterprises we have created the ultimate justice machine. We call it the Nindroid." Nindroid. Ninja droid. Ninja. Like it or not, Borg has just confirmed the existence of ninja to the populous. Maybe the name is just a clever use of words, a coincidence. But it's something to go off of. Do the others realize it?

The faces of the crowd are tinted blue from the glow of the screens, now displaying blueprints of the new Nindroid. These blueprints are peeled away to reveal the finished product. The Nindroid is black, with a purple robe-looking cloak over it trimmed with red, fitted like a robe would be. Half of its face is a solid plate of steel, and one of its eyes is obscured by a strange technological-looking monocle of sorts. It wears a curious mask that covers half of its face, from the bottom of its mouth to its chin. The only feature that makes it look remotely like a policeman is its belt, which contains a baton and a Taser and some other nasty-looking devices. Clips of the Nindroid in action are displayed next, one of it smashing a bunch of cinder blocks and a few of it breaking boards and things. "The Nindroid is a fully operational policeman that will be deployed today to monitor and supervise the everyday actions of our people. A Nindroid stands next to the school building while helping a little girl tie her shoes. Even the girl in the picture looks apprehensive, though. There is no look of care in the Nindroid's eyes, the enhanced one or not. "From today onward the Nindroids will protect us from harm in the Complex, at work, and in school." The Nindroid pictures cycle to those of them in the factories, watching over the workers with a somewhat malicious look in their eyes. "So I'd like to welcome… the Nindroids!" Applause fills the Auditorium, from where I don't know, because no one in the crowd is clapping. The entryway doors open and four Nindroids march inside, as intimidating as they were on-screen as they are in real life. Two break off at the guard posts and stand there firmly, one arm held rigidly in a salute. The other two stomp up to the stage and stand on either side of the nine staircases, eyes glowing red in the dim light of the post-video-showing. "And without further ado…" The same voice from the Nindroid video rings around the Auditorium. "May I present President Cyrus Borg!" I've learned enough history to know that a president rules over a free population. Borg is no president. He is a dictator.

The screens retract at the same time Borg is elevated from below the stage, waving and smiling. Now the crowd really does clap, but they seem a bit on edge, having been startled by the severe looks of the Nindroids. "Welcome! Welcome all!" Borg cries out to us, his platform revolving slowly, as if we are attending a sporting event and not a ceremony of death sentences. "First off, I'd like to bring notice to my team at Borg Enterprises and congratulate them on the fine work on the Nindroids. I'm sure they'll function well as our new police force!"

And that's when I know the policemen are gone.

"Now, let me refresh the memories of our returning students and enlighten the new ones. Elements will be called in near-alphabetical order, with Air being the first and All-Element being the last." The Air tribute-aged kids shift awkwardly in their seats, now the center of attention. "As you all well know, the tributes chosen today will enter the annual Hunger Games, a fight to the death in an arena where every skill they possess will be tested. Victors gain eternal glory, the chance of a lifetime to show the world what you can do! Volunteers are accepted, of course. Now, if you please…" He rolls his wheelchair down a ramp my left, where the Air slice is. His assistant and name-drawer, Pixal, a robot herself, stands next to him, her droopy robe-cloth swaying delicately in the invisible breeze. Pixal has drawn names for ages and will probably draw them forever, this year no exception. "Ladies first." Her voice is monotonous and without inflection, a feeble attempt at copying the voice of humans. She steps forward and stands directly next to the Air girls' bowl. A collective gasp rises from the Air slice as her hand reaches into the bowl, sifts gently through the name slips, plucks one from the mix, withdraws her hand, and opens the paper, all without expression. She is a robot. She doesn't understand that every year she kills seventeen kids. She doesn't care. Pixal is the robotic embodiment of "president" Borg.

"Aimee Holmes." The Airs all twist and turn in their seats, trying to get a good look at Aimee. She stands shakily, I can see her from my seat in Fire area, and makes her way to the aisle. Aimee is a tall, willowy girl with light brown hair and eyes wide with terror. She walks up to the stage, past the Nindroids that guard her staircase, and stands next to Pixal by her bowl without a sound. The entire Auditorium is silent, almost like we are letting up a prayer of thanks and respect to Aimee. _Your life saved many. We are grateful_. Pixal marches much like the Nindroids over to the boys' bowl and repeats the name choosing process. "Michael Bedford." Again the Airs look for Michael in the crowd, leaning back in their seats, having survived another year. But one boy does not sigh with relief. He stands and ascends the stairs next to Aimee, visibly shaking. The boy is small, probably fourteen, with fair hair and a slight build. They shake hands at Pixal's instruction and she announces the Air tributes' ages, seventeen for the girl and fourteen for the boy. Then they stand there on the stage, prone and afraid, for all the world to see. Surely the workers in Borg Tower are watching the Reaping live, smiling as the see the frightened pair, inventing clever ways to harm them, envisioning their deaths with relish.

Pixal walks to the next bowls, Darkness, as Borg wheels up onto his platform again. Aimee and Michael watch her with terrified expressions. "Ladies first." She announces, and the Darkness girls can't help but straighten up and listen to her. Even Darkness, the seemingly most "rebellious" of the group, can bow in submission every once and a while. "Ming Mako." I turn sharply to see the girl from school, Ming, stand up. Her face is unreadable, expressions blank, as she walks to the stage to join Pixal and the Air tributes. Her not showing fear gives her an aura of eerie confidence and power. We're supposed to be afraid. Maybe she has a plan to get sponsors like this, but it seems a challenge to Borg. The anomaly. The one who didn't show fear. The rebel. I feel a shock of empathy for Ming, and smile slightly as she looks over the audience. "Zant Eriksson!" The boy Darkness, a sallow-skinned guy with long black hair, joins Ming on stage. He turns an earring absently as they stand there together, appearing cruel and dangerous simply by his looks. Ming and Zant shake hands quickly and turn to the crowd like Aimee and Michael do now. Zant glances over at the Air tributes and his mouth twists into a half-smile.

Earth is the next element to be Reaped, yielding a tall, stocky boy named Cole, with hair similar to Zant's, and a similarly large girl who looks much older than eighteen afterwards. Next, I know, is Fire. I watch Pixal's every step as she moves to the Fire area with our bowls, directly in front of us, eyes cold and blank. Robotic. Emotionless.

I watch with fingers crossed as she dips her hand into the girl's Reaping bowl, every vein-like wire in her arm illuminated by the bright lights that surround the stage. Any of those names could be Nya's. I sit on the edge of my seat as she draws a small slip of paper from the bowl, but it gets caught on a second. With a gentle flick of the wrist the second paper falls into the girl's bowl and settles._ A life lost; a life saved_. She turns to the Fire area and reads in a clear voice, "Stirling Lightfoot!" Not Nya. Not Nya. I relax ever so slightly, but watch as Stirling stands next to the girls' bowl, tossing her brown hair over her shoulder. Pixal reaches the boys' bowl now, picks a name from about the middle of the pile and reads it aloud.

"Kai Burns."

My name.

I'm not horrified, not exactly surprised, like the horror and pain of the Games are aside for the moment. I stand subconsciously and walk into the aisle, staring up at the stage, my expression as unreadable as Ming's. I begin to walk up to the stage, footsteps ringing loudly in the silence of the Auditorium – and suddenly everything is overly loud, the sound of tunics rustling from the Fire section as they lean back in their seats, the sound of Pixal's steps on the stage, and even the sound of my own heartbeat, like an enormous drum. I walk up the steps to the stage and stand next to the bowl, standing tall. If they're going to kill me, I won't be beaten into submission by fear or anger or pride. I will remain myself, and nothing they can do will change that.

I have been Reaped, and even I can't accept that.

The lights are bright, but I make out Nya's face in the crowd, stark white but impassive, and I feel a jolt of encouragement from her expression. _Keep it up_, she seems to say. Pixal is Reaping the Ice tributes now, but her voice is a dull buzz to me. Having nothing else to do, I turn my eyes to the Nindroids and begin to evaluate them. Their inner workings follow a similar pattern to other Borg Enterprises products like styluses and the clasps on bookbags. I can assume vaguely what their database must look like, but even with all my experience in trading I can barely grasp a cipher for that. The Nindroids are masterfully crafted, that's for sure. The weapons and Tasers and belt utilities are also hard to read, even more than their database. Wouldn't want the average joe to find out how a gun works.

I focus my attention back on Pixal, who has just Reaped Daphnes Termina and Medli Valloo. The boy, Daphnes, has very long blonde hair and intelligent blue eyes. He could be a competitor. Medli similarly has long hair, but hers is brown and tied back in a ponytail. She looks scared and keeps glancing at Daphnes nervously, as if trying to get his attention.

"Jay Walker!" I miss the name of the Lightning girl, a short and rosy-cheeked fifteen year old, and see Jay ascend the steps after her. He keeps fiddling with his hands – running them through his hair, picking at his jacket sleeves, which are a bit too short on him and show his wrists, or biting his nails. The Metals straighten up next, and from their ranks a husky, strong eighteen-years boy is Reaped, Sawyer, looking out impressively over the crowd, and a wiry girl with stringy hair and sly eyes. Both look like contenders. Pixal's voice grows fainter as she walks to the other side of the circular stage, but I see the tributes she Reaps. The Water girl bursts into tears when she is chosen – possibly an act, but I line her data against that of my own and know she's genuinely distraught. The sandy-haired boy following her tosses her a look of disgust and I frown. As much as I want all of the tributes dead, the girl could use some support in a pivotal point in her life. Pixal circles around again to reap the All-Element tributes. The girl I don't recognize, Arden, but the male tribute is an all-too-familiar face.

"Lloyd Garmadon." The kid from school that I played basketball with has been Reaped. I'm surprised, because he's be the least likely to be Reaped, ideally. Ideally. But of course, with Borg, nothing is ideal. For a thirteen-year-old he shows remarkably no reaction to his choosing, just shuffles up to his place next to the girl with hunches shoulders, looking defeated.

I have traded. I have done something right. I have rebelled. He hasn't. Lloyd has been the picturesque student, the perfect rule-follower. He's been cheated.

As for I? This is atonement for what I have done.

Pixal's monotone ends and I turn around with the other tributes to see Borg begin to speak. "Another Reaping here and gone!" I narrow my eyes at him. Darn right. "I'd like to congratulate all of this year's tributes, who you will all see soon on the Hunger Games." At the word congratulate the Light tribute Daphnes gives a sort of disbelieving grunt and I look at him out of the corner of my eye. Maybe he said something and this is their way of disposing of him. Maybe he thinks. Does he know? "Thank you all for attending the Reaping. See you all in exactly one week!" A cold hand claps on my left arm and the Nindroid I was evaluating begins to pull me to a certain point on the stage, then roughly turns me around. I face the crowd again and see Nya. She looks on the verge of tears now, having lost her composure, and raises a hand in farewell. So this is goodbye.

I stare back at her and my message is conveyed. She nods. Then turns away as the floor I stand on descends and I'm encased in blackness.

**I was wondering if I should put a list of which tribute is which for which element (that is a grammatically correct sentence, mind)**

**But you'll be able to keep up with them on your own... The more prominent tributes won't be forgettable!**

**Our ninja team members are all tributes (Zane is the Ice boy, etc.) but they won't have their own chapters... I have plans for them...**

**We'll have some Borg Tower chapters, which is where the pre-Games training is hosted, and then off to the Arena! **

**And just wait for Wu's upcoming chapters...**

**Zant? Medli? Daphnes? No one? Just me? {no one understands}**

**Bye for now! :)**


	11. Chapter 11

**It feels like ages since I've updated, but hey. New chapter! (Or two...) Read on, amigos. **

_Chapter Eleven – Wu_

I gave up just before the Reaping. I wanted to see what the hacker would do, if the tributes would change, if Borg would be assassinated… Anything violent, anything rebellious. I had begun to question my motives, too. Why was I fighting the loose cannon code? Who was it who told me to fight back against rogue hackers? None other than Cyrus Borg. Maybe by attacking him I was letting him penetrate the systems. Giving him time. Then again, it would be his own systems he would be penetrating. What is going on?

As I watch the last tribute's head disappear from sight I feel a wrench in my gut that can only be pity. Things are changing; that much is evident. Are these the main offenders? Are these the people that Borg needs out of the way? I think of the crying Water girl and the dark-eyed Fire sixteen-year tribute. Did they know anything? And Lloyd. The thought of his Reaping fills me with black anger. Lloyd never – _never_ – did anything rebellious in any way, shape, or form. If he didn't act out, who did? Borg must be punishing Garmadon. But why? What does Garmadon know that I don't? What secrets has he yet to unveil to me?

The Reaping crowd is getting up, the students talking and the adults silent and brooding. Surely the kids are talking about the tributes, how glad they were that they were not Reaped. The adults are thinking, forming ideas, drawing conclusions. I used to think that the students were oblivious to reality, to the state of affairs. But one look at the Fire boy's eyes and my mind was changed. Eyes that had seen too much. Someone who knows too much. A threat. The Reaping.

I stand with the rest of the All-Elements and try to find Misako and Garmadon, but they are swept away in the waves of people leaving the Auditorium. Some talk in harsh whispers. I catch a glimpse of money exchanging hands – betters. I scowl and lower my head, hoping my hat will conceal myself. They're betting against my nephew, surely. Lloyd is a real person, flesh and blood. But everyone in the Auditorium wants him dead. Sometimes when I went to the trading hub I would see the betters in the treetops, boisterous and loud and claiming in loud voices the top tributes or the gender of the victor-to-be. They were not worthy to trade, not worthy to exploit the tools of balance and accuracy, not worthy of knowing the secret they would so willingly give away for an extra coin. Maybe it was due to these men that the trading outpost was firebombed. It's easy, though, to pin the blame on a party you dislike. For all I know, I could have led Borg to the outpost. It could very well have been me.

I follow the All-Element residents into the Atrium, the golden light indicating a peace there never will be, a serenity shattered every year at the sound of a cannon, a tribute cannon. We track footprints of blood from the Auditorium, the blood of each years' 'chosen ones,' blood enough to fill a thousand Complexes. The blood of tributes past, present, and future. The blood of my nephew, a tribute who was never meant to be.

I can't risk going home, so I walk all the way to the school building, feet crunching in the gravel, the sun half-shining from behind a grey-toned sky. Tabitha does not sit at her desk today. I wonder if she knew the Water tributes. Did she feel the pang of horror and fear when the girl or boy was called like the one I felt for Lloyd? I miss Tabitha, her sunny personality always warming the room. This situation could use some warming, but a smile and a pat on the back cannot fix our problems.

I sit at my desk, putting my face in my hands and letting out a long sigh. I've seen many Reapings, many victors, and many deaths, but this year's Reaping felt different. Distinct. More profound. Not just because Lloyd was Reaped, but this year's Reaping left a subversive message I can't identify. More to get my mind off of the Reaping than anything else, I check the un-hacked copy of the Reaped tributes, then frown. The list is incorrect. The Darkness female tribute is Jaimie Brittany, not Ming Mako. The Light tributes are both wrong. The Water boy, too, is different. And most eerily of all, the All-Element boy is a seventeen-year-old named Eli.

I should have never gotten off of my computer. The hacker infiltrated the Reaping and changed the tributes.

Was Lloyd was Reaped on purpose? Of course not. But…

I hastily open the hacked file and find the place in utter chaos, with code exploding all around me, everything erupting into zeroes and ones that shatter. Slowly the file is eaten away until a message pops up on my screen from the computes: File unable to load. Please try again later. I scramble for my keyboard, but it is too late. The file implodes, leaving no trace of its existence in its path. I can almost imagine the ghostly hacker waving goodbye as I watch the file pop out of sight. It's gone.

Someone has invaded the Hunger Games database. I was just a tool to get them there.

What more will they do now?

**Wu's chapters are super short (oh, they'll get longer... *smiles*) so as an added bonus I'm putting in a Ming chapter too. Happy birthday, Merry Christmas, whatever, more Hunger Games! :)**


	12. Chapter 12

**I guess I'll say it again, Wu's chapters are short so I'm adding Ming's into the mix for this update. **

**There's not much else to say, I guess... So yeah, there you have it. By all means, read!**

_Chapter Twelve: Ming_

As soon as I lose sight of the stage and the crowd I scramble for the top of the tube, but a cover has already slid over it and I'm trapped. Claustrophobia sets in and I yell, pounding my fists against the walls and feeling for any lever or switch that will give deliverance. I'm about to give it all away to Borg again when a light flickers on near the floor that illuminates my prison, which is actually a platform steadily descending into the earth. I squint for the ceiling, but even in the bright light I can't make it out.

"Welcome, Ming Mako." Pixal's voice penetrates the silence. "We are escorting you to your stylists as we speak. If you do not know what a stylist is, press one. If you want to hear my next announcement, press two." Surely even the thirteens know what stylists are, but I want to hear the way Borg plays them up. I press the one button on a panel of keys that emerges from the wall like magic. "Stylists are the people who dress and design the clothes and costumes of the tributes for interviews and the pre-Games dragon display. Your stylist will prep you for the interview tomorrow. They want to get an idea of your character, the aura you portray. You will meet your stylist shortly." I sit on the descending floor as Pixal moves on to her next announcement. "As a tribute of the Games, you are entitled to know the schedule of the next week, during which you will be staying in Borg Tower. Today we will let you settle into your new quarters and have a day of free time. Sports areas and movie theaters are but few of the free-time options you are offered." Borg approved movies, of course, I assume. "You will also have the dragon display on day two, when tamed dragons fly through the square in front of Borg Tower and the Complex residents get a real look at their tributes. On day two you begin training with the other tributes in the Training Center. You will spend the majority of your time during the day here, then have dinners and late afternoons off. This will continue from days two through four. On day five you will have your private lesson with Borg Tower's Hunger Games staff, who control every aspect of the Games and make the Arena themselves." I scowl, knowing all too well the merciless personalities of the Gamemakers. "On day six we have your televised interview with Master Chen himself, where the world gets to hear all about you! On day seven in the morning you will be taken to the Arena to begin the Games. This is the schedule of your week. No further announcements." I sink to the floor, feeling the cold metal though my tunic. Training with the other tributes. Private session with the Gamemakers. I'm in the Hunger Games.

The truth doesn't seem to set in on me until now. I smash my fist into the keypad. "I don't care!" I scream. "I don't care about your stupid rules and your stupid Games!" I keep smacking the keypad until it makes a garbled beeping noise and sinks back into the wall. Somewhat at a loss, I stare at the spot where it stood. I am no one. I am just a tribute in their Games. I feel the oppressing weight of servitude bear down on me and curl up into a tight ball. I don't want to be part of them. I don't want to be "just one of the tributes." I am separate, individual, distinct. Slowly, I raise my head. I will not just be a part of the Games. I have something they can only dream of.

And that's what's made me dangerous. That's what made me a tribute in the Games. That and I think. Who else does? Kai might. I remember what he said, how he helped me, trying to find the subversive message he laid for me to find. The Light boy, Daphnes, might too. I heard him nearly scoff at Borg at the Reaping. Maybe that's what made him a threat. Maybe that's why Borg wants him gone – he thinks.

I'm so caught up in my own thoughts that I barely notice my elevator coming to a rest. Hastily I stand and look around, not sure really what to expect. Here is where my Hunger Games journey begins. But maybe it began before then. Maybe it began at school when I spoke out against Borg. Maybe it began when I used my gift after the test. Or maybe it began even before then – further than I can remember. I run a hand through my hair, smoothing it and composing myself. No one can know who I truly am – not even the ones who will be closest to me before the Games. Especially not them.

Like the keypad, a door materializes from the wall and opens with a pleasant swoosh. I poke my head around the corner, on guard, but all I see is a short corridor leading towards another door. For a second I wonder what would happen if I just stood here and refused to move – hallways are meant to be walked, doors to be opened. The simple, most basic facts of our society could be challenged so easily. How much easier would it be to challenge those facts imposed upon us?

Reluctantly, I walk down the hallway, my boots making loud thud-like noises on the floor. Everything is accentuated in here, from the colors of my Darkness badge to the sounds of my breathing. I quicken my pace to a jog, the silence of the hall unnerving me. It's too free in here. We are tributes, led off to die in the Games. We could have just stood there. But why don't we? Data. Tests. This is a test of sorts, and I can't identify it. Why would Borg care? Something about our spirit, out freedom, seems to appeal to him. How we are free but unfree, especially here – given leave to walk how we wish, but walk to our imminent deaths.

I reach the door and extend a hand to open it, but before I can it opens from the inside with the same swooping sound as the other door did. Inside I see what looks like a surgeon's room and jump backward. The walls are tiled white and blue and lights hang from the tall ceiling, dangling from thick wires. In the middle of the room sits a reclining chair; adjacent to that is a tall podium with drawers. A few of the drawers are opened and I see tools, but none that look entirely dangerous. Tweezers, small scissors like the ones at school for the thirteens, gauze tape, nail files – nothing incredibly suspicious. I step closer into the room and look around more. A full-length mirror leans against one wall, with an empty clothing rack next to it. The room otherwise is bare. Where is my stylist? Confused, I take another step into the room and the door slides shut behind me. I grasp at the space it occupied, but it sinks into the wall and vanishes. I'm trapped.

I barely have time to think about panicking when another door materializes on the other side of the room and I back up against the wall abruptly. My hand darts out and I grab the nearest thing I can use as a weapon – the safety scissors – and hold them in my sweaty palm. With a swoosh the new door swings open and I get the first glimpse of my stylist.

Stylists are usually well-dressed due to how rich they are and the freedom of dress they acquire by living in Borg Tower, and mine is no exception. She – I can tell it's a girl due to the extremely short dress she wears – is decked in an enormous fur coat made of what I can only assume to be some kind of animal's pelt, a skimpy red dress that shows off her long, satin-stockinged legs, and high heels made of shiny black material. She pulls off her white gloves with expert hands, revealing long red nails, checks her makeup in the mirror, pulls down her hood, and faces me. I'm not sure what to expect, staring into the wide, smoky eyes that glitter grey in the light. "I'll expect you'll want to know my name. They usually do." Her cherry-red lips move off with her words, accented strangely, and I feel on edge. "I suppose so, yes." I reply, somewhat coldly, but I'm determined not to like the stylists or anyone here. They do not want to help me. They want to make me look pretty before they kill me. My stylist raises a heavily penciled eyebrow at my tone, but struts over to a chair near the mirror. "My name is Muse. You are Ming. I know all about you." I cross my arms and glower at Muse. "You'll want to know how I know that. They all do. I have a background check on you. For a Darkness, you're relatively clean. That's good. Sponsors hate arrogant punks." Her words are straight and to the point. Slowly, I step closer to her. Before I can open my mouth, she speaks. "You'll want to know what's on your track record. Living alone illegally, paying for traders, fighting recently, and a few big secrets I can't say." She looks over at me and moves her arms around in a gesture to the room, then points to her ear. "W-What?" If anything, I'm even more guarded now. She's referring to bugs. But if she's from Borg…

"They don't call me a stylist for nothing. Let's get styling." I scowl and hold my ground. Muse glances up at me. "I can call the Nindroids, you know. They won't do anything to help your looks, though." "Fine." I snap, and sit on the reclining chair. Muse looks over me briefly. "You don't have a bad face. It will go well with your look." I'm about to ask what my look is when she raises a hand to silence me. "Later. For now, let's get done with the basics." I frown even more at this. The way she knows what I'm thinking makes me feel even more contained, like a hamster in a maze, able to be manipulated. Muse swivels away from my chair and over to the door. A keypad appears and she taps a few buttons. "Markus? Ness? Brittany? We're ready."

The door slides open and three more Borg Employees enter. Markus and Ness, the guys, look very similar, both wearing bomber jackets and combat boots and shades, like the cool guys in the old movie posters in the library from about a million years ago. Brittany looks like a girl from the cover of a book about trends from the past ages, with fancy woven hair and a short dress like Muse's.

"This is your preparation team, Ming." Muse's lilting voice jolts me out of my reverie. "They'll help me clean you up." Ness smiles encouragingly at these words and nods. "We'll be doing the basic stuff – like shampoo and getting rid of your excess body hair." Muse looks over at me. "There's a bathing suit by the shower room. Put it on and Ness will help you clean your hair." I'm surprised, because I was expecting to go naked in front of my prep team, and Muse notices. "Usually I'd ask you to undress. But it seems that the Darkness tributes felt rather strongly against it." I grimace, but sympathetically. "I can see that." Muse nods, then smiles, just barely. "You are individual. Don't let anyone take that from you." I freeze. "And Ming, dear? Please do give me back the scissors. You don't seem the type, but we can't afford any accidents." I release the scissors from my numb hands and they clatter to the floor. Ness takes my elbow and leads me over to a wall that undulates and turns into a frosted-glass room – no, not a room. A shower, about as big as my room in the Complex. Warm steam and aromatic smells waft out of the partway open door and I sigh. "Right this way, miss." Ness hands me my bathing suit, solid black with the Darkness emblem on it right where it would be on my tunic, and hands me a towel. "I'll be in in a minute." I look over at Muse. _Thank you. _She tilts her head in acknowledgement of my look, then gestures for me to get into the shower. I nod and step into the shower room, instantly overwhelmed by the warmth and the water.

Muse is different, not a normal stylist. I've seen them for many years and know their tastes. I've seen her before, but her costumes were just like the others. Was she like this to the other Darkness tributes? Am I different? Or is it just her?

Three hours later I'm almost perfect, as Markus has so helpfully said for the umpteenth time. Ness came in and did my shampoo and conditioner along with a myriad of other hair products that I don't know. As soon as I stepped out of the shower-room he pulled out a suspiciously Taser-like object and zapped me with it, but it simply dried my hair, making it float down in silken waves around my back, long and smooth. I've been shaved, waxed, trimmed, and preened to no end, until finally Muse ushered my prep team out and began to talk to me about my look.

"You have a powerful aura about you, but you're also beautiful. We could make you look desirable and seductive-" I wrinkle my nose at this - "But I think the look is too cliché. Odds are that the Light girl or maybe the Fire girl will try to look like that. You're the first Darkness girl I've had that I can really work with. The others are more… intimidating." I laugh lightly. "I can understand that." Muse smirks. "My look for you is _enigmatic_. Puzzling. The people will want to know you, but they can't. So they'll want more. Enigmatic is a hard look to play, though. If you become too aloof they won't want to know about you." I grip my hands in my lap, admiring for a second my smooth and perfect nails, done personally by Brittany. If anyone can play cryptic, Muse can. I'm not entirely sure I can trust her, even though she seems rebellious, to some extent. The little clues she gives me, the bugs and the swimsuit and all, seem perfectly placed. She is culturing my trust. I need to trust her, but I feel like I can't. Trust no one. That seems the moral of the Games, of the world, of the empire of Borg Enterprises. Muse is on Borg's payroll and I can't trust her. I also can't let her know I know this.

"How should I go about looking _enigmatic_?" I put stress on the word and look into Muse's eyes, which are blank and bare of information. "Seem separate, maybe calculating. Never let them truly know who you are, but hint at it. Clues need answers. I'm going to ask you a few questions and we'll work on your look." I nod, pulling my familiar tunic more tightly around me.

"So, Ming. What was your favorite thing to do at home?" Muse's voice drops in imitation of Pixal. "Oh…" I scramble for a somewhat-aloof-sounding response. "My favorite thing to do at home was to read." "Read?" Even Muse sounds slightly thrown. "What did you like to read?" "Lots of things." I smile quizzically. "Stories. Legends. _History_." Ness and Markus shift uncomfortably and Brittany gives a small squeak. "What kind of history?" Muse presses, and I wonder if she's grilling me for information I might have found – a rebellious move. "I especially enjoyed the books of fables and legends. They give ideas on truth and justice. Morals. The way to live your life well." My voice slows and I annunciate ever word, making sure even my prep team cannot miss a word I say. Muse raises an eyebrow again. "I see. Fine, that's fine for today. Now, take that awful tunic off, I don't see why you put it back on. Markus, get her some casual clothes and we'll show her the dragon ride outfit." Markus smiles mischievously and I wonder what my dragon ride outfit could be. Before I can turn to watch Markus leave through a door that appeared Ness is handing me a bundle of cloth tied with a purple and silver-trimmed ribbon. "Here," he says, and gestures me to the wall, which shimmers and makes a dressing-room door. My casual outfit is black combat boots with tight black pants, a deep purple shirt with three-quarters sleeves made of a soft material, and slim black leather strand bracelets with a Darkness emblem bead on them.

"Why the bracelets?" I ask when I walk out, twisting them around my wrist thoughtfully. "You need a token, something that defines you from the others. You're also allowed to take a personal item into the Games, and since you don't have any jewelry or anything I thought this might go well." "Surely other people have bracelets." Muse shrugs as if this fact is not of importance. "But everyone will be watching you."

"Why?" My curiosity piqued, I look up from my new bangles to Muse. "Like I said, they'll want to know you. They'll be watching your every move, trying to understand you." This sounds repetitive and forced, and I examine Muse's blank expression. "How do you know?" Muse doesn't meet my eyes. "Because they've done it before."

**Ah, secrets. So entertaining... (not an evil mastermind, FYI)**

**So, what do you think of the Muse? She plays enigmatic well, but then again, does she have experience? **

**Thank you for coming to the double feature - and for the reads! We'll return to the Hunger Games when I update again. Bye!**


	13. Chapter 13

**Back to Lloyd, now a resident of Borg Tower, for however brief a time. For the week they stay I think I'll go day-to-day, but not in the Games, because this story is long enough as is. But hey, you don't want to read this, right? Moving right along to Lloyd.**

_Chapter Thirteen: Lloyd_

Not going to lie – my stylists kind of scare me. When they came through the wall in their weird costumes and brightly colored wigs I nearly had a heart attack. Their clothes are different, too, with the girls wearing incredibly short dresses that make me want to cover my eyes and the guy dressed like greasers from the old movies Dad and Mom like. My main stylist, or at least the one ordering around all the others, has yet to tell me her name, so I dub her Featherhead, due to the enormous plumage bursting from a tiara she wears over her poofed-up hair. The two other girls are Nose Ring and Candycane, who are donned in extreme piercings and a candy striped dress respectively. The one guy I call Elvis, after one of my dad's favorite singers/actors. He keeps slicking back his already grease-filled hair and tossing hopeful looks at Candycane, and I smirk. Young love, as my dad would say. The team puts me thorough a rigorous makeover, and soon I've been ushered out of the room to be escorted to my room.

Elvis walks with me though a newly made door and walks the hallway with me. He looks like he wants to make small talk but doesn't know what to say. What is there to say? I'm a poor tribute boy who's about to die in the Arena. He's a rich, important citizen of Borg Tower. Good luck? Are you nervous? At least you'll look good when you die?

Meandering down the hallway in silence, I begin to truly think about my state now. I'm a tribute going to the Arena. I'm going to train in the Training Hall like all the other tributes, eat like my predecessors, and be shuttled to the Arena to die. Not all of us are going to die, though. One will win. Who it is, though, I couldn't say.

We reach the end of the corridor and Elvis types in a keycode with a gloved hand. A new door materializes and we walk through it. Instead of concrete hallways I see my first view of Borg Tower.

The Lobby fills my vision, an enormous glass structure with a ceiling that must go up ten stories. In the middle of the room is a fountain of gold with water spewing out of invisible faucets, depicting Cyrus Borg standing over a miniature Complex, school building, and factory, holding a walking stick in one hand and the symbol of Borg Enterprises in another. The fountain glitters in the light and casts beams of dappled sunlight about the Lobby, making small spots on the walls and floors shimmer like a mirage. One wall is completely made of elevators. Two of these are encased in what looks like glass. The tribute elevators, surely. Can't have a tribute loose in Borg Tower.

I take a step forward and a Nindroid grasps my arm, fixing me in place. Elvis waves a little, somewhat awkwardly. "I'll see you soon. Y'know, before the interview. Um…Bye?" He ends his sentence like a question, as if unsure he will see me again. I wave with my free hand and Elvis jogs away to make a new door, leather boots clicking in the echoing loudness of the Lobby.

Glancing up, I see long pillars of light hanging from almost invisible strands in the ceiling, lighting the Lobby. Near the elevators is a welcome desk, where Pixal and a few other secretaries sit. I wrinkle my nose as I look at Pixal, at her hands as they write on a clipboard. The hands that drew my name. The hands that fated me to die. The Nindroid pulls roughly on my arm and begins to walk to the glassed-off elevators.

"A message from President Borg: You will be taken to your elemental floor. Each element has an individual floor. All-Element is floor number 99. Your stylist and mentor will be waiting for you in your suite." _Mentor?_ Featherhead and Borg never mentioned a mentor. Nevertheless I allow the Nindroid to drag me to the elevators and watch as he performs a retinal scan – despite his having no "real" eyes – and upon completion he pulls me through the keypad-made door and to the elevator. My Nindroid escort presses the "up" button, steps back, and stands straight upright, clicking his feet together smartly. And we wait.

I run a hand through my hair nervously, feeling the newly trimmed ends. The Nindroid makes no comment as we wait for the elevator, and likely he won't. Talking to a tribute – that action is not one of his commands from Borg. Maybe last year the tributes could speak to their guards. Exchange names, elements, favorite foods or colors or something. Anything! Looking at the Nindroid, I see the empty abyss that stands there, void of _anything_ – the abyss I will soon fall into myself.

Our elevator arrives, finally, and the Nindroid steps in first, a clear sign of his dominance. This is his home turf. Borg's rules. I watch the number '99,' clearly lettered, pop up on the enormous plate of numbers that takes up a whole wall of the elevator. I halfway consider pressing more buttons just to be antagonizing, but the Nindroids look easily capable of injuring me and one look from those red, mismatched eyes and I'm rooted to the spot. The elevator shudders and zips away from the floor with incredible speed. I stumble and throw a hand out to catch myself, palm smacking against the glass. Steadied, I turn and watch the Lobby and other floors disappear from beneath me and fade into oblivion. Colors blur and mix, blending with the new floors, balls of light appearing for only a fraction of a second before winking out like tiny stars. I enjoy watching the jewels of light crop up on random floors and dance around the elevator before falling down to the Earth. The Nindroid stands straight and tall, facing the elevator's closed doors. I see the light-spheres illuminate his eyes, but they reveal only deeper darkness. Borg's creations have no appreciation of beauty. They have no need to.

The floor '99' comes all too soon. With a shudder the elevator stops itself and the Nindroid marches to the door, which opens at his command. I gasp at the sight that lies before me – the suite for the All-Element tributes.

A waterfall covers the entire back wall, gurgling over grey-toned stones that glisten in the light. The All-Element emblem is emblazoned on everything – the floor tiles I step on, the huge hanging lamps that sway above me, and even on the wooden walls, cleverly hidden in the wood grain. The walls are solid wood, like planks, giving the room a cabin-like feel. Warm, dim light fills the entire space, bringing out the mellow colors and darker tones of the room. A table stands in the middle of the atrium, on which sits two envelops, lettered just like the '99' in the elevator: _Lloyd_ and _Arden_. With a squeak the Nindroid escort turns on his heel and presses the down button for the elevator, leaving me in silence. I'm still admiring the atrium when a voice breaks the silence.

"Done gawking? If ya look like that in the Arena you'll be dead like squat." A black-haired man, maybe thirty, and ruggedly handsome, strolls casually through one of the two side doors and looks at me suspiciously. "Wonder how we got you. Things are changing, though…"

"Got me?"

"You know." He waves a hand as if my question is of trivial importance. "Reaped. Chosen. Honored." His lip curls and he glares at me. "I'll take it you're Lloyd."

"You've taken correctly." I reply icily, matching his glare. Much to my surprise, he claps.

"Good, good. I like that. Shows you've got some spunk. People like a rebel."

"Not today."

"Borg doesn't like a rebel. But the people?" Rebellious activity will get me killed. Then again, I'm going to die at any rate.

"The name's Finn. Finn Cordova." Finn runs a hand over his whiskered chin, looking down at me with his grey eyes, but no longer glaring, which I appreciate. "You were an All-Element victor?" I guess on a whim. "Age fifteen. Hunger Games X, can't remember the number. Not like anyone keeps track. But yeah, I won. You're wondering how?" Which is exactly what I'm wondering, so I hastily shake my head. "No, uh, sir. Mr. Cordova." Finn chuckles, as if I'm a cute puppy he's watching chase its tail. My expression hardens and he stops.

"First off, it's just Finn. No Misters, no sir's. Got it?"

"I think I can handle that."

Finn nods approvingly. "Good. No more nodding, it looks to submissive, like you're scared." I catch myself nodding and reply, "Yes, sir – uh, Finn." My mentor smirks. "Now that that's out of the way, let's get to mentoring. Your room is on the right. Don't accidently go into Arden's. Your stylist is here, too, piece of work if I've never saw one. Wanted to give you a bowl cut, go for more cutesy so you can get sponsors out of pity." Finn snorts and rolls his eyes. "Pathetic. Just get yourself killed even sooner if you're weak." He opens the door for me and I step into my personal suite, but before I can get a good look at it he shoves me into a small maintenance closet and slams the door.

"Listen to me, kid. You're the weak one, the one they'll all go for first."

"They?" I can't tell in the dim light, but I think Finn rolls his eyes again. "Usually the Light tributes form a sort of pack with other strong tributes and they go around hunting the weak ones. I've got my bet on Daphnes, the Earth two, the Fire boy, and maybe a few others. Strong, but also smart." Finn seems to loose concentration for a second, glancing around the room not nervously, like he's looking for bugs or cameras, but thoughtfully.

"This year's tributes are different. Last year's pack of strong ones were all brawn. No brains. This year's Career pack candidates are all sort of both. You can tell, can't you? They look intelligent. Usually a good trick or two can dupe a Career, but not this time. Lloyd, _they think_." I shrug, which is hard to do in the small space of the maintenance closet.

"Don't we all?" Finn lets out a short breath of air. "Granted. But I mean really think. Ask questions. Find the faults in society. Recognize patters, foresee changes, know things. Have you ever thought like that?" I stammer for a response. "I-I don't know. Maybe?" My mentor grabs my arm and pulls me out of the closet. "If you want to win in the Games you have to think. I'm here to teach you how to."

Learning to think is much harder than I expect. Finn shows me the living room, from which the kitchen and bedroom branch off from, and asks me to find the pillow that has been the most recently sewn. "You've got to be joking." I stare at him incredulously. "I found it the second we walked in. Do it." Scowling, I snatch up a pillow at random. "There's your pillow." Finn catches it and tosses it aside. "Try again."

I turn back to the pillows and choose the largest one, but before I can throw it at Finn he says, "Try again." I glare at the pillows as if they have each done me a personal wrong and wish with all of my heart that they would just burn into ashes. A plushy silver pillow sits near the edge of the couch and I grab it. "Good." Finn says from behind me, and I turn.

"Wait. I got it?"

"Tell me how you chose that one."

"Instinctive thinking is good for now, but we'll have to help you be able to manipulate it. To see patterns and draw conclusions. To recognize a situation and change it to your liking. If you can think you can win." Finn looks over me approvingly. "Now, c'mon. Featherhead has some things she'd like to discuss with us about your look." My jaw drops as I stare at Finn. "How…" He winks, then gestures me to the kitchen. I follow, still in awe at his knowing my stylist's nickname.

Maybe thinking could help me win this thing.

"Bowl cut?" "NO!" Despite Finn's obvious adverse feeling to the cute-and-cuddly look, Featherhead seems intent on making me look as juvenile and innocent as possible. "I'm the stylist here!" She cries, frowning, which looks strange with her permanently upward-pointing lips. "Yes," Finn says patiently, "But we need him to looks strong. Older. More powerful." "Hmph!" Featherhead scoffs. "I can do it. But he'll get more sponsors if he looks young." "Young means vulnerable. Those sponsors won't be any good if he's dead." My stylist's already wide eyes widen even more. "You're not saying…" "Please. Just this one tribute. I swear you'll do him a solid by making him look better." "Fine! But I still like bowl cuts."

I watch Featherhead's hands pull out makeup bottles and brushes, and she suddenly tips over a can of hairspray. With lightning-fast reflexes I catch the can, like I already knew what was going to happen. Patterns. Actions. I look over at Finn and he grins. Have I begun to think? Or am I all the more foolish for believing so…

**Soooo... Will Finn make a trader out of Lloyd? Or is he just fooling himself? Or this, or that, or whatever, questions questions questions. And here we conclude this chapter, wonderful reader. Until next time! **


	14. Chapter 14

**Anticipation driven you mad? (Hardly.) Wait no longer, readers, we're back with chapter fourteen! The next few chapters will be training in Borg Tower - sounds boring, but I hope you'll be pleasantly surprised... ;) Today is the "chill" day, for lack of a better term... *not saying anything***

Chapter_Fourteen – Kai_

The beauty and artistic style of the suite is impressive, but I know what lies behind it. Walls of concrete and steel, too thick to penetrate. Probably some type of listening device or camera. We are never alone, always monitored, always watched.

I managed to make my prep team and stylist fairly scared of me by just scowling and looking intimidating. The whole concept isn't terrible, but if anyone is going to be closest to me before the Games it certainly won't be them. They were sent by Borg. They probably report to him. My entire prep team is made up of guys who look like they jumped off of their motorbikes and are going to get a milkshake from the bar like in the really old movies. Their leather jackets practically glow with shininess from impeccable polishing and their hair is perfectly formed, with not a strand out of place. The shortest member of the prep team keeps pulling out his own personal jar of hair gel and combing his hair back. If he even thinks of approaching me with that hair gel I think I'll hit someone.

My main stylist is older than the rest, maybe twenty five, and he doesn't offer me his name. The entire lot of them are too afraid to do anything to me, so they busy themselves with organizing shelves or bottles of multicolored goo. I stand to the side with arms crossed, staring them down. This must be their first time with a non-cooperative Fire tribute, as they don't challenge me or force me to do anything at all. The feeling of power is nice, but a bit unjust. They are just doing their job – who am I to challenge their rule? It's enjoyable to break the rules though. It's enjoyable to rebel.

But I will be paying for these thoughts in the Arena.

After an hour or two of absolutely nothing the prep team dubs me "suitable" and one of the younger guys escorts me through a door and into the Lobby. As expected, a Nindroid guard takes my arm and shuttles me up to the Fire floor. Stirling is already there in the atrium area, looking bored as a young woman prattles on about how nice she looks after her makeover. I take my envelope, shake myself free of the Nindroid guard, and walk to the right, into my suite.

A young man, about the same age of Stirling's mentor, stands in my living room, grinning like a fool. "Kent's the name! Nice to meet you, Kai." He reaches out a hand to shake, which I take grudgingly. "I'm here to show you how to win the Games."

"Look, your help is appreciated, but I really don't need it." Kent keeps on smiling.

"So we have an independent one. Well, well, that's all fine. You've never been in the Arena. I have." My eyes meet his, cold and dark.

"Kent Bradbury. Won the Games at age thirteen by hanging out in trees and doing nothing. That was the year a massive power outage in Borg Tower shut down the Game's biggest artillery. You must have good contacts." Kent's face drains of color and he stares at me, face sagging from the relief of not smiling.

"H-H-How did you…" Kent's Games were a roaring trade secret a few years back, and information on the Games is always hard to come by. Instead of responding I turn on my heel and storm into my room, leaving Kent in shocked silence behind me.

A robot with wheels stands next to the door. "My names is -" It chirps, but before it can continue I slam my palm into its head and it topples over. With a sigh I sit on my bed and look at the ceiling, thoughts swirling around my head like flies. Why am I here? I've acted out against Borg. All of the other traders are too old to go to the Games. Maybe my death will be a message to the trading hub, a message that they should cease, or cause more innocent deaths. Innocent… I wouldn't qualify myself as innocent, but Borg will warp the truth. Like he always does. Like he always will do.

My anger towards Borg seems unfairly placed on Kent and the robot, and I look at its overturned body a little sheepishly. I can say all I want about Borg in the Arena – until he gets sick of it and blows me up 'accidentally'. Kent could be of some help, but the trade states he won on sheer dumb luck and some good inside people. Why they would save Kent, though, I can't say. If he has inside people, though – rebellious people, too – he could be worth talking to. I look at the door now, examining the Fire design burning across its surface, and lean back on my pillows again. Even there I feel the Fire design sewn into the pillowcases. The divisions will never cease. Especially not here.

A knock at my door bring me upright and I swing my feet around and stand. The bedroom has high ceilings made of wood with tiny lights like stars embedded in them. Stars and jewels. I remember my night walking to the hub, many nights before the Games – the night they burned the outpost. Things are changing. They still are. Revenge, vengeance, anger, hatred, all morals that keep the Hunger Games fire burning. This Game is not simply chance. For a select few, the odds were not in their favor. They still aren't.

I walk over to the door and open it. Kent stands there nervously, his eyes darting to the robot and to me and back again. "I just wanted to say I know what you're going through." He begins awkwardly. _No, you don't_. He wasn't specifically chosen for revenge. I am the scapegoat and the savior – my death saves many. Or does it? Who will be the next young trader to die like I have? Will he know what is planned for him, too? Will he know the value of his own life?

"I know this is hard for you. It was for me." He glances up nervously as if checking to see if he's said the right thing. Hard for him? He was a thirteen! He didn't know what was going to happen in there. "I guess you've researched the mentors and all, but you won't know about the Games. I do. Face it, you need me." I almost laugh in Kent's face. I may need some things, but the advice from a victor who won at thirteen-years – that I can pass on.

"And why do you say I need you?" I ask waspishly, making Kent flinch.

"I mean, don't get the wrong impression. You seem pretty self-sufficient." _Self-sufficient_. Who has been leading the household for years, who has learned to trade and bargain, who has survived without anyone's help for so long? Kent had relied on others to win his Games. I will not be indebted to anyone in the same way. "I know the Arena. I know how it works." Does he know the floor pattern, similar to exactly the same for innumerable years? Does he know the traps, so visibly placed to the eye of a trader? Does he know how to identify edible things from poison? Does he know how to win the hearts of sponsors? Kent is innocent. Despite his being saved he has never been exposed to the real world. His help could be of some use, but I'm willing to bet that it won't be.

"I know you mean well. But why did they save you?" Kent's brow puckers.

"What?"

"Never mind." I turn away from Kent and look into my bedroom, at the now-wrinkled sheets on my bed. Everyone here is sheltered. I thought it might be better here, but in Borg Tower especially the workers must be wholehearted followers. Even Kent, a victor, has been pulled into their cult. I close my door quietly, listening to the gentle click of the bolt snapping into place. I need someone who thinks, and if my mentor and the people are out I might as well go to the tributes. Daphnes and Ming are the first two tributes who pop into my head. Ming sees the wrong with Borg; that much she made evident that day at the school building. Daphnes I can only guess at. Speculation and a quick code exchange proves that he could – but even then the cipher is shrouded. The Light tribute is a mystery, and that is how he will stay.

With nothing else to do, check my bedside schedule and see that I have free time. A list of things to do entails, like we need any persuading, and I read sports, movies, games, and more. Determined not to be idle, I stand and retie my boots, feeling the rugged laces under my fingers. If I close my eyes I can imagine myself kneeling in the room in the Complex, listening to Nya knit in the corner. Everything in Borg Tower is silent, almost in anticipation. Anticipation of our deaths, of the Games. They'll want a good show. We deliver.

I brush past Kent on the way out of the suite and enter the elevator from the atrium. Stirling's door is open and I hear voices floating from her room, but I care not to eavesdrop and enter the elevator. As expected, a Nindroid guard stands ready. He eyes me suspiciously.

"Um…Which floor is the gymnasium on?" I feel strange talking to a robot, but he comprehends my words and presses a button amongst the many on the wall. With his other arm he grabs my forearm and holds me on the spot, red eyes boring into me, daring me to move.

"It must be nice – nonexistence. Artificial intelligence. Just going through the motions. Orders. Commands. Just doing what he says. Thinking is a burden, a job. It's dangerous – it's gotten us here, hasn't it? But I'd choose thinking over orders any day. Freedom. Not like there is much, but the mind is something someone cannot enter and manipulate. The mind is wholly yours. No one can exploit it." I look over at the Nindroid, who doesn't react. "You're probably sending that to Borg. He's going to listen to it and he'll chuckle slightly and figure out how to kill me faster. That's okay. I've done something good, I think. Maybe he has too. But there's a balance, you know? Not just in trading, in life. That's what makes trading so applicable to life, the life-balance. Maybe Borg has done more good than bad. But maybe he hasn't. All those tributes…" I stop talking abruptly as the gymnasium floor door opens. "Go tell him all I said. Go on. Do it. Kill me if you want to." The doors slide shut, leaving me alone. Again.

I turn and walk down the short hallway to the gym. Its vastness is amazing, like that of the Auditorium back home. Two or three basketball courts line one wall, adjacent to a fake grass field in the shape of a diamond with dirt in the center and a fake grass soccer field. A few elevated platforms for wrestling and a weights area lie to my right. The entire place is empty and seemingly abandoned, but I know better. My eyes find three cameras hidden in the doorway alone and I wonder how many more fill the gymnasium and its equipment.

Almost instinctively I walk to the basketball court and pick up a ball. It is shiny and clean and has a waxy look to it, so I take it to be unused. Even though I'm far out of the three-point like, I take a shot and watch the ball sink into the net with a _swish_. I remember playing basketball with Brad and Lloyd. Lloyd, the new All-Element tribute. Lloyd, who will most likely die in the arena. No competition. No threat. No one cares.

The rack of basketballs shakes a little as I take a second ball, angles and figures and speeds darting around the court. Again I shoot, this time aiming for the backboard. I want to make Borg's basketballs used, not specifically made for the tributes. I want them to seem worn, and, if next year's tributes came to play basketball, they will know that someone used the balls. Another tribute, another time. The endless circle. I remember once hearing a paradox, like, "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" In a way it is the same for tributes. You can argue either side but no one really can make a point. "What came first – Borg or the Hunger Games?" His brain child, his greatest achievement… how different are they, really?

My first basketball comes rolling back to me and I kick it away, watching it wobble and spin over the court. The erratic motion is calming, seeing it make its way to the hoop and stop against the wall. My second basketball bounces nearby. I look at the cart of balls and suddenly turn away from the court, moving on to the soccer field. The soccer balls are blindingly white and black, meticulously polished and shined. I lift one and feel grease rub off onto my palms, which I wipe off on my pants. I set the soccer ball down and walk across the diamond-shaped field like the one we used for kickball. The sign nearby says baseball, though, but I see the players have bats and giving the students any kind of weapon would be dangerous. Even the tiny baseballs are perfectly stitched, each line in perfect symmetry with the other. I make my way next to the wrestling rings, tracking dirt across the gym floor, but there's really nothing to do here either as there's no one to wrestle. I halfheartedly punch the punching bag and make my way to the door. There are too many memories here, memories already made and memories to come – of Lloyd shooting a basketball, of the kickball field, of a new field, this one of grass, stained with the blood of tributes. Disgusted, I turn away from the gymnasium and for good measure pluck one of the hidden cameras off the doorway as I exit.

I call the elevator and wait, hands in pockets, not really thinking but just watching the floor numbers escalate on a panel on top of the elevator door. The Nindroid will be waiting for me. He will choose my floor number and I will go there. I will see Kent, who may or may not try to make conversation. I will go to my room and wait for dinner, staring at the ceiling, idly trying to pass the time. I will dine with my mentor, stylist, and Stirling and her pair, and then probable go to bed early and wait for morning. More than ever, now, Borg Tower seems like a prison. My life here is planned and worked out. I have no freedom, not really. Even thinking isn't as liberating as I made it sound to the Nindroid in the elevator up. If there's no freedom on the outside, then how much freedom can there be within?

**Okay, admittedly, the mysterious stuff insinuated at the beginning is for a later date... If you're bored, it picks up, if you're not, *invisible fist bump, roll with it* Once again, for the millionth time, thank you for staying with this! Every read counts! See ya next time around.**


	15. Chapter 15

**It has been too long, my friends! Actually it has been, ****_way _****too long, but I was vacationing in NYC for the past week, so there's not much I could have done then... Still, as recompense for my leave of absence, two chapters will be posted today! The Training Center chapters are pretty good, so look forward to that. Now, do so kindly read on... :)**

_Chapter Fifteen – Wu_

It's amazing how quickly the Complex and the other buildings get in the spirit of the Hunger Games. Posters are being churned out by the thousand, covered by the faces of the potential victors-to-be. Charm bracelets and elemental jewelry are made, specifically depicting elemental symbols. Elemental pride in general skyrockets, with the dividing lines between the groups more defined than ever. Insults are hurled at the elements with the younger or weaker tributes. Magazines dedicated to the upcoming Hunger Games fly around the Complex, full of rumors or gossip or speculation. Conversations between adults and students run similarly:

"Did you see tribute X?"

"Not him/her! Tribute Y's got it all!"

"Ha! You wish! Better than tribute Z, though!'

"Poor kids…But who cares! Tribute Y for the win!"

The tributes most spoken of to win are the Earth tributes, the Light tributes, and the Metal tributes. Lloyd seems to be about in the middle, not the one to be disgraced by the betters and the students but not one of the real contenders, more of an oh-poor-kid tribute than anything else. Garmadon and Misako are in shock, closing their doors and refusing to see any of the reporters that have been assailing them ever since the Reaping.

All-Element doesn't have too promising tributes this year, but we are caught in the elemental pride that has swooped over the Complex and are spending all of our well-earned money on cheap watches made of fake gold for All-Elements only.

I have bigger problems on my hand – trying to catch the hacker that wrecked the Games. More out of curiosity than anything else, I've hunted him for days straight, but as I expected, he's a ghost story. It's strange to go back to work after so long fighting the malware that infected the Games. I type a short paragraph on the standing of the school –going well – and send it to the principal. With nothing else really to do I stand and walk out of my office.

"Are you going somewhere?" Tabitha asks kindly, looking up from her work. "I was going to visit Misako and Garmadon. Lloyd…" I trail off and try to put as much pain in my eyes as I can. My play-acting must be decent because Tabitha nods, softening even more. "Yeah, of course. This must be very hard for your family." I don't meet her eyes and nod, then lock my office and walk out the door, feeling the file shift beneath my tunic. She doesn't notice the extra few inches of top-secret papers stuffed tight into my waistband or possibly she assumes it's my way of coping and makes no comment, hopefully the former.

Every step I take back toward the Complex is one of dread, looking at the Nindroid patrol guard that seem to line the roads these days. Ever since the Reaping the very air is filled with the tenseness of the population. Even they must know that things are changing. Hopefully they do. How much will it take?

I watch my boots in a gesture of humility, like everyone around me, who can't seem to meet the burning red eyes of our new 'police.' Do they know how many policemen Borg murdered to put the Nindroids in their place? The files feel warm against my stomach, the letters 'DECEASED' burning into my skin. How many families lost fathers or husbands? How many lost sons or daughters? The ties between people in the Complex are tangled and complicated. If something happens to a single soul we all know about it. Yet, how quickly the policemen were taken care of. How little news we heard of their passing. I, for one, didn't know at all until I received the file. So many still don't. Are there children still waiting for their fathers to come home from a perpetual business trip?

Children. Lloyd. Like the connections of the Complex, every thought seems to lead to him. Lloyd is still a child. He does not deserve to die in the Games! I feel a hot knot of anger and emotion sear my throat and I force myself to keep it together. Lloyd never deserved any of this. He was practically Borg's puppet – that would have been fixed eventually – but it was the perfect cover of truth. Garmadon said it would save him, protect him.

And now his only son is a tribute.

I scuff my shoes along the walk and watch the pebbles skitter along the path, remembering the days Garmadon and I would do the same, saying we could kick rocks farther than the other, claiming the one who lost was a Darkness for sure. I wonder if Lloyd did the same, back when he walked these roads. But Lloyd is gone. I'll have to let him go. But he constantly pesters me in my mind. I know what Garmadon said. I know what we have to do. But I cannot. Even for his sake, I cannot.

I make it to the Atrium without attracting any trouble, which comes easily these days, as demonstrated by two twin boys being roughly checked by a few guards by the doors. A flash of anger makes me want to strike the Nindroids, but they're too strong and much more than I can handle. I join the rest of the crowd, watching miserably as the two boys are pushed around even more, then enter the Atrium.

The golden beauty of the All-Element Atrium has been thrown askew, marred by the presence of Nindroids. They stand before the two grand staircases and by the fountain, shooing away any hopeful kids with a petrifying glare. The only sound that echoes around the room is that of the water splashing, and even that seems out of place without the merry-and-bright feel of the Atrium taken from us. I look around the room, pulling together a patchwork of scraps of memory to shroud the darkness the Nindroids have brought upon us – a few youngster dashing around the fountain, splashing innocent passersby, a couple standing on the stairs with a young boy hiding behind the mother's leg, a repairman shaking his pliers at people who rattled his ladder as he replaced a light in the wall, Lloyd grinning as he and Brad ran off to go to school – I wince as Lloyd reenters my thoughts again and force him away, shattering the happy memories I so carefully put together. A cold something prods me in the back and I see a Nindroid standing behind me. "Keep moving!" He barks, as if we are the machines. I look him full on into the eyes for a moment, holding my gaze, and then Lloyd is there again – dead on the Arena floor. Borg could do that so easily. Lloyd is totally in his power. I will not be the one to compromise the short balance given to my nephew. I turn and walk away.

I make it all the way to my door when the cloth meets my mouth and nose and I fall to the ground, unconscious. I don't remember making contact with the carpet.

The first thing I feel when I come to is the cold, chewing away at my skin and making its way in icy tendrils closer to my heart. My hands and feet are numbed instantly and I shiver. The slight movement brings a new variable into my predicament – I'm bound to what I assume to be a chair with some type of material, coarse and strong. My ankles and hands feel chafed and I wonder how long I have been tied – seemingly hours. I am gagged, too, which fills my mouth with the taste of dried spittle and the biting cold. My breaths are ragged and dry. I try to kick out a leg, but the rope-material that holds me is too strong and keeps me perfectly still. The chair is cold, too, and I feel the metal radiate the chill into my back and legs. I'm blindfolded, the rough fabric cutting into my nose and forehead. I feel a trickle of blood from a cut run down my nose and stop at the tip, as cold as the room around me.

And so I wait.

With most of my senses rendered incapable I use my hearing, trying to locate where I could be and what my surroundings are like. A fan churns away to my left, blasting me with cold air, but I soon become acclimated to the freezing temperatures. That also worries me – how long can I stand the cold? Surely someone will come for me. Unless they never intended to. I have a vivid mental picture of freezing in the darkness, losing the feeling in my feet and hands, unable to move, only wait in horror as the cold works its way up my limbs, turning them into blank space, void of anything… But that will not be my fate. I twist in the chair, forcing myself to move, to somehow get my blood flowing. My wrists and ankles cut against the fabric and I lash out against the bonds, feeling the fabric dampen with my blood, which freezes and turns the bonds brittle. I'm still thrashing around in my chair when a shaft of light penetrates my blindfold and I stop.

"You left him in _here_? This place is a meat locker!"

"It was the only place I thought they wouldn't look!"

"Well, for your information, the guards are now no longer human. They won't care how cold it is!"

The second man grunts and I hear footsteps coming my way. I tense myself, not sure what to expect, but someone whips my blindfold off, toppling my hat to the ground, and I get my first view of my surroundings.

Sure enough, the fan I felt and heard lies to my left, an enormous factory-grade one ten times my size. The floors and walls are made of a burnished steel that glows in the light from the crack in the door. Save the fan, the room is empty except for me and my chair. I can feel the heat flowing into the freezer and can almost see it snaking into the room and into my body. I look up next and get a good look at my captors.

The first man I heard is Garmadon, shivering in the cold and looking nervously at me, as if trying to see if I am all right. The second man, who loosens my bonds, I can't see as well, but he has fair hair that seems to shine. As soon as he straightens I see his face – a handsome one, but somewhat marred by his crooked nose, broken and never set correctly. He smiles nervously like Garmadon and looks at me like I'm a rabid animal about to attack that he has just tamed and set loose.

"Wu, I'd like you to meet Larson."

"How do you do?" I ask politely, and shake his hand. Then I grip it tightly and flip him upside down, my knee on his chest, poised for a strike. Garmadon yells out and grabs me, pulling me away from Larson, who lies gasping on the freezing metal floor. Garmadon extends a hand to help him up but he pushes himself to his feet, now apprehensive of the two of us. I wipe the thin line of blood from my nose and narrow my eyes at Garmadon and Larson, standing in ready position, prepared to attack again.

"You'll wonder why we brought you here." Larson begins, voice a little wheezy from my jiu-jitsu flip I gave him. I spit out some unkind words in his direction and rub my bleeding wrists. Larson glances nervously at Garmadon, who takes over.

"I'm sorry we had to, er, mug you. We have to be sure you're with us." "With you how?" I glare at my brother with clear distaste. "Larson and I need to know you're one hundred percent in."

"In _what_?" Looking back at Garmadon I size up his actions, intentions, and facial feature construction. He wants me to join him. The folders, the information, the Reaping…

"You know what is happening, don't you?"

"Bits and pieces. Things are changing, don't fool yourself. But the Nindroids, the guards, the hacker of the Games – there are rebels. Real ones, not just some upset older guys who want better air conditioning. They don't live here, either. Somewhere else. And the tributes…" My eyes widen and I turn to my brother. "What is going on?"

"You noticed the tributes are more dangerous to Borg, don't you? The Light boy, the Fire boy, the Darkness girl for sure – they all know. And Lloyd…" Garmadon's voice breaks and he looks at me miserably. "I was a fool. They're punishing me by sending him in."

Larson's expression hardens and I look for his badge, a Metal one. Did he know either of the two tributes that were Reaped?

"We had planned a sweep, but with the tributes being so beneficial –" He catches my confused glance and starts again. "You must understand. In the Arena –" But he is cut off by a blaring siren that fills the room, illuminating the steel floors and angry red. Larson curses vehemently and runs to the alarm, pokes around in its wiring for a second, then turns back to us.

"We're off the grid! But it's not safe to stay here."

Garmadon growls. "How did they find us?" Larson shrugs, checking over his shoulder into the hallway as if looking for the Nindroids to come and attack us right now.

"Brother!" I cry urgently, catching Garmadon's tunic sleeve as he turns. "Tell me!" His eyes flash – but not with anger, with a strange passion. "I want you to join me!" He yells over the alarm. "Who? Join you and who?" But he only shakes his head in response and gestures Larson out the door.

The three of us run for a while and I try to figure out where we are. The windows of the building we have just exited are blackened and the sky outside darker still, without stars. I try to find signs or any other indicator of our position, but find none. Shoving my hat back onto my head, which I thankfully grabbed, I turn the corner and blunder out into the open, feeling the cool night air, a drastic difference from the chill of the freezer. Larson and Garmadon run up beside me, panting and looking around at the woods that surround us.

"Where_ are _we?" I ask Garmadon urgently, but Larson answers.

"Safe house," He gasps. "We brought you here from the Complex. No easy feat."

Garmadon laughs a little and examines me. "We didn't mean to put you in the freezer, but Larson thought the guards wouldn't come looking there." Larson puts his hands up in defense, but laughs too.

"Hey! I'm sorry, okay!"

Without notice a sound like a cracking branch penetrates the silent of the night. A husky gasp follows and I whip around to see Larson sink to his knees, face contorted in a grimace of pain. A hand gropes at the front of his shirt.

Only when he falls on his back do I see the blood.

"Freeze!" The voice is human, but only just, raspy and commanding. "I said freeze!" I want to rush to Larson's side, but the bullet in his chest and the realization that the same thing could happen to me keeps me still. "We have guns trained on you as we speak! Do. Not. Move. We don't care who we shoot!"

Larson gives a cough and I watch his chest rise and fall erratically. He doesn't have much time left. Bloods slicks his tunic front, staining his Metal badge red. A hand reaches up and barely taps his stomach, trembling. I tear my eyes away from the dying man, feeling sick.

Dark figures begin to emerge from the shadows, dressed in bulletproof vests and carrying enormous guns with flashlights on the tops. The vests seem disturbingly ironic now and I fight the urge to look back at Larson, at his prone figure on the grass. The leader, whom I can see more clearly now, is dressed in combat boots, camouflage slacks, a belt with tools like the one the Nindroids wear, a black sleeveless shirt that shows his muscles, and has mud or paint smeared across his face. He looks incredibly fit and powerful, wearing a sneer and radiating an aura of dominion wherever he looks. The leader has no badge, but his vest is embroidered with the familiar "BE" of Borg Enterprises.

"You work for Borg." The words slip out of my mouth before I can catch them and I scowl when I realize how childish they sound.

"That's right. Smart one, here." The leader drawls lazily, angering me still.

"You had orders to shoot us?"

He shrugs. "Maybe. Why didn't I shoot you two, then?" I glance back at Larson and see his is still breathing, but barely, his entire upper tunic colored a brilliant red. "I was told to find the two men who were meeting here. Killed the spare, didn' I?"

Garmadon growls again and I see him looking at Larson. "We're not meeting here. We were looking for food for our families." A second bullet shot echoes throughout the clearing and Garmadon stumbles, clutching a hand to his arm, the bullet having only grazed him.

"Liars. I don't like liars." The leader moves in closer, passes me, and bends over Larson. He tut-tuts and kneels on the bloody grass, running a finger over Larson's jawline. "Such a shame… You have family, bud? A life. Sorry I had to end that." He slaps the Metal man across the face. The sound rings clearly in the silence. "Sorry about that too." He croons, and I barely restrain myself from attacking the leader.

Larson's face moves, his expression shifting, and he spits a mouthful of blood in the leader's face. He smiles, only briefly, and I see the Larson I knew for such a short time but feel I know so well. Then his head falls sideways and rests on the grass and he is still. His chest settles. He is dead.

Garmadon gives a strangled cry but doesn't move from his spot. The leader examines Larson's blank eyes for a moment longer, then stands. "Take these two back to the Complex. Let them live their lives. No more meetings, no more campfire stories, or we'll find more of your guys to shoot up." He aims his gun and shoots Larson again, whose body jerks with the force of the bullet and lies still again. A hand grabs my shoulder and spins me around, facing the woods.

"Go on. Run."

**Ah, no, conspiracies and theories and ohmygoshi'msoconfused (had to put the apostrophe) and it looks like we're back! So, welcome, then. And let nothing stop you from reading the next chapter - I will hinder you no longer. Hasta la vista, amigos. *waves***


	16. Chapter 16

**So yes, chapter sixteen is here! Apologies for the delay, if anyone has even read fifteen yet. Now we begin the training chapters, which I enjoy and hope you will, too. And the next cycle of chapters brings in something new... I feel so maniacal, is that bad? Meh. Be excited, dear reader, and read. **

_Chapter Sixteen – Ming_

With the "day of rest" gone, and the impending and infamous training lessons tomorrow, there's no way I thought I would be able to sleep. But as soon as my head hit the soft, goose-feather pillow I was out, fingering the Darkness emblem subconsciously.

I wake up with a jolt, and, realizing that it's not even light out, settle back down, but I'm already awake and it seems fruitless. My bleary eyes make out the tiny gems of star lights in the ceiling and I watch them twinkle for a minute. I always liked stars – planets and heavenly bodies so far away, orbiting in their own area, alone and untouched. Maybe uninhabited planets are lucky; they don't have to deal with us. I groan and sit up, thinking I must be really tired if I'm assigning planets emotions and thoughts, then stand and stretch. The bed is too comfortable and I want to get back in, but I know I have to be alert for my training session. My life could depend on it.

Poking my head out the door, I see Muse and my mentor, a dark and brooding young woman named Aeterna, talking in hushed voices, not incredibly secretive, but acting well enough like they don't want to be overheard. Muse notices me enter the room, though, and ceases conversation immediately.

"Ming, good to see you up! I have your training outfit ready for you." I wince at the word outfit. "I'm not going to be wearing anything… fancy, will I?" Muse laughs politely and quietly, but Aeterna remains solemn. "No, no, good heavens no. You can see your clothes and change into them if you want to. Borg issued the standard model and the stylists were allowed to modify it a little. Go on, go see." If I had any other stylist but Muse I would be worried about going to training bedecked in a sequined leotard, but I know my stylist's tastes now and feel more confident about her choices. Aeterna nods her consent and I scramble to remember her Games, but she looks before my time. Her strong features and striking but dangerous face give her the look of a Darkness victor. As a mentor, she has yet to speak to me, but I can accept that. I'm going to my grave and no survival tips can help that.

Muse shows me into the kitchen where my training outfit sits on a full-size mannequin that, oddly enough, is exactly my body size and shape. The clothes themselves are simple enough – nothing like my dragon ride outfit or even my casual clothes. My mannequin is shod in combat boots, black with minimal purple embroidery at the laces. Athletic leggings, all black, are next, then a sleeveless shorter tunic with a large Darkness symbol on the back. The edges of the would-be-sleeves on the shirt are also embroidered, a pattern of purple and gold and blue that shimmers in the light, just enough beauty balanced with just enough danger. Muse smiles at me as she touches the Darkness symbol on the back. "I wanted to make it individual, but still nice to look at. They won't be able to keep their eyes off you." Politely, I smile back, because I wish that was true. I'll mostly be hiding and trying to stay out of trouble. Muse has done so much for me already, trying to make me stand out, to seem desirable. I wish I knew her motives.

Aeterna lightens when she sees the outfit and turns to me. "Muse has made a good balance. If you look too dangerous people will see you as that creepy Darkness girl and be repulsed by your appearance. If you look too pretty and little-girlish then they won't take you seriously. This is a good balance, especially because today we want you to look powerful for the other tributes. We know you're a contender." I blush at her compliment and shrug. "Maybe, I guess. It depends." Aeterna smiles knowingly, which is confusing, but she's a mentor and has seen her fair share of tributes. How different can I be?

My next action is to try the clothes on, so I awkwardly roll the mannequin out of the room, undress it, and put the outfit on myself. Every piece of clothing fits perfectly and it is all very comfortable, and I run around a bit, testing the flexibility of the fabric. The boots are already molded to my feet by the time I walk out the door.

Muse and Aeterna look at each other and grin when I emerge from my bedroom, and I glance at my reflection in the mirror. I'm taller with the boots, looking lithe and strong and fast. Even my eyes look somehow dangerous, but not in a cower-in-fear way, like you're scared and in awe and can't stop looking. I whip around to face Muse. "How…" but she just smiles more. "You look wonderful. Now, I think it may be dawn. Let's get some breakfast, shall we?"

Aeterna reminds me I have the dragon ride today, and I shudder at the thought of having to stay in a somewhat-enclosed space with Zant for who knows how long. Muse begins to tell Aeterna about my dress, which she hasn't shown me yet, but I'm too focused on my eggs and biscuits to pay attention. I finish with my orange juice just when she gets to the hem trimming, and I excuse myself to go find my schedule, to see how long I have to tolerate Zant. I've seen him at school, but he hangs in the not-so-nice crowd, the ones who are rumored to trade for drugs and are almost exclusively Darkness. He even looks cruel, with dark eyes and greasy hair and that typical gangster aura about him, the kind of guy you take time to make your way around in the hallway. Zant is nobody's friend, and never will be, but he'll most likely be a contender in the Games – a backstabber, probably, but a contender nonetheless.

I have the dragon ride at dusk, which doesn't seem very specific, but Muse tells me she knows all the times I'll need. Thankfully the ride doesn't seem too long, and the prospect of getting to ride a magical creature like a dragon appeals to me – something we both have in common, I think with a wry grin. But the dragon is not persecuted for it; I am.

Training begins at 8:00 in the morning and continues until 5:00 in the afternoon, with a lunch break in the middle. I eye my schedule, thinking that it's an awfully long time to train, but pre-Games practice is lifesaving and simply irreplaceable. I'll have to make the best of my time. I try to remember what the previous victors have said about training, but I draw a blank. Of course, Borg Tower. Secrets. Lies.

I have a few hours to kill and, frankly, don't want to listen to Muse and Aeterna talk about my clothes, so I find a map and maneuver my way to the movie theater. The halls are dark, even though the sun is coming up, and it gives the Tower a sleepy feel, like something not yet awakened – some monster not yet unleashed. I find the theater fine, but realize I'm not alone. Three other tributes sit in the enormous room, faces illuminated by the screen, with Nindroids standing close by in case a fight would break out. I almost laugh at the thought, of the tributes having a popcorn fight in the movie room – but things could get much uglier very quickly and I'm almost glad for the armored monstrosities' presences.

Sitting to my left is the sandy-haired Water tribute boy, looking tired and bored at the same time, head turned towards the screen, which flashes a countdown of about a minute or so. The Metal boy, Sawyer, sits to my right and way up close near the screen, leaning back to get a good view of the picture. Why he sat so far up I don't know, maybe to appear separate from the lot of us. The last tribute is the Air girl, whose name I believe is Aimee. She looks terrified, like the Games have already begun and she's waiting for us to attack her. I sit in the very back left, far enough away from everyone else to feel comfortable, but still on edge. The sight of the tributes and the Nindroids kick-starts my Hunger Games instincts, and I feel myself tense up in the chair, ready to run if need be. The countdown clicks ominously in the semi-darkness, as if reminding us that we are wasting the time before our eventual and eminent demise. I force myself to relax and enjoy the movie, feeling myself sink into the soft leather of the padded chair, watching the numbers click steadily down…

The movie is a long one about a prince and a princess in a magical land with dragons, knights, and chivalry. I envy the beautiful princess as she gallops away on horseback into the sunset at the end of one scene – her world has its dangers, but nothing compared to mine.

The knight sets out to find the princess, slaying a dragon in a very fake and melodramatic sort of way, and with his trusty band of comrades-in-arms he charges the evil wizard's palace and steals his love away to safety. The entire plot is very drab and trite, but I have nothing better to do with my time. While the prince and princess kiss I choose the moment to look at the other tributes. The Water boy looks disgusted, wrinkling his nose at the couple sloppily kissing on the screen like he did when Aimee began to cry at the Reaping. Aimee still looks scared, but less so in the darkness. Sawyer I can't see too well, as he's so far up, but he still manages to look important while watching a movie. Even though I'm not enjoying it too much, the film ends all too quickly, leaving me to my own thoughts and not those of the prince and princess. The world is not so easily resolved by killing a bad wizard. Maybe it could be helped, though – with Borg being the wizard and the citizens the prince and princess. I'm surprised the movie is Borg approved. Even the simplest stories can be thought-provoking.

I find a clock as soon as I can and catch a ride down to the Training Center. Thankfully, the elevator remains empty all the way down, with just me and the Nindroid guard and no one else. The Nindroids look even more impressive here, in Borg Tower, their armor shiny and eyes gleaming with an even more menacing light. Imagining these creatures in the schools… I shudder and for a moment am glad I'm not back home at the Complex, until I realize what I'm thinking and push it out of my head.

The hallway to the Training Center is short, but I jog its length and enter through the open doors. What I see before me takes my breath away. The entire Training Center is enormous, seemingly as big as the Auditorium. Near where I stand is a group of tributes clustered around the instructor, who gestures me over. My head whips from side to side as I examine the area. There are stations for archery, sword-fighting, knife throwing, a climbing wall, a jungle gym looking contraption, a weights area, and stations for other survival skills, like fire-making and finding shelter. Instructors stand at every station, all fit and tall and lean, wearing black athletic suits with "BE" on the sleeves.

As I get closer to the tributes I silently thank Muse for doing minimal adjustments to my outfit. The other competitors' outfits are wildly decorated, with tassels and fabric and feathers and flashing lights. The Metal girl is picking tiny studs of bronze off of her sleeves. I see Kai shredding a golden fringe nearby that he presumably ripped from his clothing. The Air tributes look especially uncomfortable, with their outfits almost completely covered in feathers. The Light tribute girl, Medli, runs a finger over the lights in her outfit with pleasure, but Daphnes looks stonily down at his attire with obvious disgust.

"Tributes! May I have your attention, please?" The instructor, a tall, strong woman with a tight ponytail begins to speak, her voice rough with force and power. She stares us down with dark, glittering eyes. "My names is Livia, and I am the head instructor of the Training Center." She turns in a half, circle, meeting each of our eyes. "There are rules here, just like any other place you've ever been." _With Borg around, no doubt_. "You have free roam here. Go to stations as you choose. You are not allowed to engage in combat with another tribute. Such fighting is against the rules and President Borg will not allow it." I see Zant and a few of the tougher, meaner looking tributes smirk at her words and glance eagerly at their younger prey. "On day five of training you will have a private session with the Gamemakers. There they will evaluate your skills and you will be given your training score. I advise you not to take this lightly. High training scores attract sponsors, who will be your saving grace in the Games. But of course, your mentors will work that out too." Livia looks at us again, one last time, as if trying to identify if we're carrying hidden weapons or something, then walks to a closed-off stairwell and ascends into an elevated booth I didn't notice on my entry.

The first thing I see in the booth is a group of stern, intelligent looking men and women dressed in smart-looking outfits with clipboards – Gamemakers. I feel myself scowling and turn away from them. The very people who will be torturing me in the Games, the very people who have killed hundreds of children, just staring at me, giving me a score and shipping me off to their Arena and leave me there to die a painful death at their hands. There they sit, just watching. I wish I could hate them more; I wish they looked more evil. But they look very ordinary, with normal faces and features. Their eyes are the only thing that gives them away, watching the tributes with looks to rival the Nindroids – eyes that burn with a hatred and a contempt that make me wonder what in them snapped, and when. How did they turn so cruel? What did Borg do to them – or what did they do to themselves?

Looking to my left and right, I see the tributes dispersing about the Training Center, trying to put as much distance between each other as possible. Trying to appear busy, I meander my way over to the shelter-building station, still watching my competition. As expected, the Metal, Light, and Earth tributes congregate in the middle, exchanging names and elements and tossing their heads in the direction of weaker tributes and laughing. Ignoring the station instructor altogether, I watch the Career tributes with a sort of fascination, noticing patterns and facts in their movements, watching their loyalties shift and blend as they figure out who to trust.

It becomes clear that Daphnes is their leader, although he has yet to speak. One moment with him on the sword-fighting area and you'd know. He's a master with the blade, moving it like it's an extension of his arm. Every tribute stops to watch as he weaves in and out of the instructor's defenses, commanding the floor with and eerie grace and power. The instructor – Borg's swordsmaster – is defeated in seconds. Daphnes just puts away the sword and moves back to the group, who automatically move away from him when he comes near. The Light boy radiates an aura of power and intelligence, a dangerous mix. The sword in his hands is not simply a weapon – it is a shaft of death.

Medli, for all she looked at the Reaping, is actually pretty good, too. She's particularly skilled at throwing knives, but even that is trumped by her agility. She flies through the air at the jungle gym and the obstacle course, using a grappling hook to the greater effect. She isn't one to ignore, either.

The Earth and Metal boys both have the same skills – strength. They life massive barbells and hurl around medicine balls like they're weightless. The two aren't so great with finer weapons, though, like bows or knives. I see the Earth tribute accidentally snap a thin spear and shove it behind a rack of maces, glancing around nervously, which almost makes me laugh. Though they're powerful and bulky, they could be easily defeated by a well-placed arrow or knife, so I feel less intimidated by them.

The wiry Metal girl is smart; I can see by her looks and her training. She immediately goes to the knife area and plugs up a few targets, then walks over to the edible plans testing and passes it without a second glance. Even her movements look thought-out, with her careful treads and clever eyes glancing about the room, sizing us all up. Smart people are dangerous, I know. The Metal girl will be a competitor.

The Careers gather around the archery area, which they all take a shot at, no pun intended. Daphnes is an amazing shot, actually shredding one of his arrows in half when it hit the bulls-eye like the archer in the movie I saw earlier did. The other Careers are only decent, with the Metal girl a little better than the rest. The Earth girl, who is big and stocky like her element partner, engages in conversation with Medli, who laughs.

All of the other tributes are attracted to the Careers, stopping whatever they are doing to watch them practice, and I realize how long I've been examining my competition and turn around to the shelter-building station behind me, blushing apologetically. The man who leads the station is medium height with an average face, a normal-looking guy, but is clearly smarter than he lets on. He guides me through multiple scenarios when I need to find shelter, then shows me images for a variety of Games and asks if they would be good places to camp. I'm a fast learner, and soon can identify decent shelters from the bad ones. Muddy areas – bad. Dry rock overhang – good, but only with decent covering to shield me from wandering tributes.

I move on to the smaller stations, trying to avoid the noisy and boisterous Careers, who are scaling ropes, swinging at each other playfully while still ascending. My next station is tracking, and another tribute stands there, puzzling over a footprint in the mud. He's small, maybe fourteen or thirteen, with blond hair and wide eyes, giving him a startled look. When I walk over he jumps about a foot in the air and then, realizing I'm not going to kill him, hunches his shoulders and gets back to work.

"Hey." I don't know why, but I want to show the kid I'm not a threat to him.

His wide green eyes find my Darkness badge and widen even more. "H-Hey." He licks his lips nervously and looks back to the footprints on the table.

"It's a raccoon." I point to the muddy prints. "You can tell by the position of the toes." The boy, whose badge reads All-Element, stares up at me in shock.

"Thanks." I almost laugh again at how incredulous his tone is, like a Darkness could never do anything good.

"I'm Ming, by the way." I say brightly, picking up a picture of a small line of prints half-hidden in the grass.

"Lloyd." The All-Element boy replies, and I remember his Reaping suddenly. We're both quiet for a moment as I pick up a new photo and compare the tracks to the information sheet nearby. Lloyd stares blankly at his photograph, clearly confused. I almost open my mouth to tell him what the prints are, but he sets down the picture unexpectedly and walks down a few stations to my left. He's clearly intimidated by me, which is certainly not the impression I feel like I'm giving out right now. Looking at the Careers, I'm weak by comparison, no match for half the kids in the Training Center. Or at least, that's what they think.

I learn some useful skills from the survival instructors, like some handy ways to make fires or how to listen for the noises of tributes hiding, or moving without being seen or heard. This I particularly like, weaving my way in and out of bushes and trees, moving with the patterns of the leaves and branches, "becoming one with the plant," as the instructor says. Other things I pick up too – red berries in the Arena are almost always poisonous, except for the ones with compound leaves, but even those have the occasional dangerous strain, too. Tributes almost always look directly in front of them, maybe looking from side to side or up slightly, but rarely straight up or directly to the right or left. I figure out how to identify and exploit an enemy's blind spots, how to treat wounds, simple and complex, and how to snare live animals for food. I purposefully avoid the weapons stations for after lunch, waiting to see if I excel in any certain form of arms that I could use in the Arena.

Lunch comes in the middle of a lesson from the camouflage man, so I excuse myself and follow the other tributes to the far wall, opposite the one we came in on, which opens up to an enormous cafeteria, with steaming platters of food lining the walls and bowls of soups and salads and breads on the multitude of tables. The smell of it all is intoxicating, wiping my mind of all the things I've crammed in it this morning and filling my thoughts with the craving of food. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I walked in.

The Careers gather around one of the tables that has meats on it, thick sausage links and steaks and something called barbecue that sounds and smells amazing. Their arrogant demeanor and powerful presence repels the other tributes from the table, almost taunting us, daring us to go and get our meal from their domain. Instead I gather my lunch from the other tables, a thick slab of bread with a large bowl of creamy soup, a few slices of cheese, which melt in my mouth, and a small steak from a side table, which is easily the best thing I've ever eaten in my entire life. I go around sampling other small foods from the non-Career tables – a cup of fizzy brown liquid that burns my throat and makes me choke, small bits of decadent fruit, and tiny cakes that you can swallow in one bite. When I've gathered my horde of food I sit at an empty table and, without knowing where to start, stare at the delicious feast in front of me for a minute before digging in ravenously.

I eat without stopping until ever crumb on my plate is gone, then, with a moan of pleasure, look up at the other tributes to see if they're enjoying their meal as much as me. The Careers are horsing around, tossing grapes into each other's mouths and talking in loud voices, all except Daphnes, who picks at his food sullenly. The other tributes all look relatively the same – hunched over in their seats, watching their enemies warily, and trying to look small. I see Lloyd in the corner drinking some of the fizzy water I had earlier, and Kai sitting at his own table, brooding.

Lunch is short, though, and soon we're shuttled out of the cafeteria and back into the Training Center. I do a few more survival stations while my food settles, tying knots and practicing the invisible-moving thing again, then finally step out into the middle of the gymnasium to use the weapons. A few other tributes are trying out the spears and knives and such, too, so I don't feel so alone. First I go to the swordfighting arena and pick up a practice stick. The instructor shows me through a few basic blocks and strikes, dodges and rolls, and we begin to spar. I'm average with the sword, getting in a few good hits and stabs, and even pulling off a pretty good roll at one point, but I still get battered by the instructor's stick. I see him wince occasionally and wonder if Daphnes' fierce strikes hurt as much as they looked like they did.

A few tributes wander over to the arena, though, so I take it as my cue to move on. Knife-throwing is next, which I like a lot better that fighting with a sword. I have a good aim and throw, not as good as the Careers', but enough to stand on my own. For the fun of it I try staff-fighting, which is basically holding a big stick over your head and dancing around, trying to avoid being hit. I even try archery, which I'm decent at too. Out of the corner of my eye I see the Careers congregating and talking to one another in hushed voices, pointing occasionally. I can't help but wonder if they're talking about me – but that's probably wishful thinking.

One station advertises explosives, which is more amusing than helpful. I learn a few basic wires of makeshift bombs and how to deactivate them, then I'm given a half dozen compact little explosives and told to turn them on and blow up some targets. It takes me a few minutes to figure out how to activate the tiny contraptions, but when I throw them they almost always hit the target.

Part of what keeps me going is the satisfaction of knowing I could be the best tribute in the Training Center if I wanted. A few simple words, so little effort… My explosive connects with the target and erupts in a small plume of fire. I can't risk thinking like that. It's why I'm going to the arena, isn't it? That and thinking, of course. I watch the Earth and Metal boys joking around, tossing weights across the designated area without effort. They surely don't think. The Metal girl watches her elemental partner and her new ally with narrowed eyes. I can almost see her thinking as she stands there. She may think, too. What did she do to deserve this fate?

I turn my head to the other side of the gym, where I see a blonde boy struggling up a climbing rope – Lloyd. He looks young, why is he here? Usually the younger kids are Borg believers. But then again, I wasn't. Does he think, too?

People who think can't be trusted, that's what Borg believes. How much more trustworthy are they in the arena?

**And with that, chapter sixteen ends. And with ****_that, _****I proceed to thank you, as always, for reading. And with ****_that, _****good night, morning, whatever time it is wherever you are, and may the odds be ever in your favor. Until next time!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Apologies for the wait, I meant to publish this yesterday. So, voila! Go on then, read... (no pressure)**

_Chapter Seventeen – Lloyd_

If I was nervous before the first training practice, I'm even more nervous now. Everyone else is incredibly good at fighting, tracking, running, and just about everything there is to be good at. As for me? I feel like I've tried every weapon, explored every survival booth, attempted every ropes course and have yet to find anything I excel at. Isn't the point of All-Element to be an all-around person, somewhat good at_ something?_ Master of none, more like.

I'm more than ready to leave when Livia calls for dismissal at the end of training, practically running out the door and manage to get an empty elevator. Breathing a sigh of relief, I sit down on the cold metal floor and rest my forehead against the wall. "What a disaster." I murmur. I would feel more secure if I was good at something before going into the Arena, but if anything the training today has just made me more anxious. The Nindroid guard stares ahead without comment, like he is oblivious to the kid on the floor next to him. I don't mind. I'd rather have a guard who doesn't care versus one who would pull me off the ground and force me to stand upright.

Arden's elevator hasn't come yet, because her mentor and stylist wait for her at the door, the stylist holding a jar of gold glitter in her hand. If it wasn't for Finn I would be painted gold, but he put his foot down, barely allowing the smallest of golden trim on the sleeves of my shirt. I'm grateful for my mentor, more than anything else here. He knows what it's like, out in the Arena, fighting for his life, using only his wits to survive. I need to learn his art in order to survive too, but I'm too tired to practice today.

Finn raises an eyebrow at me as I walk into my suite while my stylist prattles on about how good I would have looked in gold. "Bad training?" My expression surely isn't that hard to read, and I nod.

"I'm just not good at anything!" The exclamation makes my sound like a whiny brat, but it's true. To my surprise, Finn nods thoughtfully.

"Yeah. Some kids aren't. You'll just have to use your brain in the Games, then."

"What?" I ask, incredulously.

"You've been raised with people telling you that you're special, that you're good at stuff, right?" Finn's tone is harsh and makes me want to disagree with him, but his words are true. "Some people aren't good at fighting. Some aren't good at running or climbing or wrestling. But you need to tell me this – was there anything you were remotely decent at? Not even that good, but better than the rest?" I think about my training and try to remember what weapons is used or stations I attended.

"I was okay… I mean, the utmost of mediocre at the staff." Even when saying so I wince. The staff was easily the weakest weapon in the Training Center, or so it seemed. The Careers just split the sticks over their knees and moved on. Despite all this, Finn smiles.

"You have something now. Try to get better with you staff. Find out how to make one if there isn't one available. Learn how to deflect swords and knives with it. Figure out how to hurt people with it. If you can gain knowledge from your staff training you'll be more knowledgeable in the Games." I gawk at my mentor unashamedly, because his words make sense. I need to have some tool in the Games, and now I have one. "You don't have to be a master at a weapon, or multiple, to win. The victors are usually smart or strong, at one end of the spectrum or the other. You need to be smart. Are you ready to practice?"

I nod. "Ready."

My practice is writing out all of the tributes I can remember and what they're good at. "Whoever first comes to mind is usually a competitor. Kids you don't remember are either very smart or weak, usually the latter. Smart kids you'll probably notice, though." I list out the Careers and explain to Finn their various skillsets. He gives a low whistle when I tell him about Daphnes in the Training Center. "This guy," he taps the Light boy's name on my legal pad, "is your main competition. He's smart and strong and a skilled warrior."

I swallow. "Is he gonna be the victor?"

Finn shrugs. "Probably. He knows not to trust the other Careers, but they kind of gravitate towards him, right? They trust him because he has a stronger character than them." I almost ask Finn if he was in the booth during the training, because he's exactly right. "You need to avoid him. He doesn't see you as a threat. The smart people are his enemies. Whatever you do, don't appear intelligent to this guy."

We move down the list, crossing off weak tributes but keeping them in mind for their various strengths. Finn even helps me predict where they will go – which will run from the Cornucopia, which will try to get stuff and die, who will try to get stuff and live, who will stay at the Cornucopia (the Careers), and who will probably die in the area away from the center of the Games.

"Where do I lie?" I ask Finn, examining the little map he made of his Arena and showing me where the tributes died and who they line up with in my Games.

"Probably die in the woods. Tribute or otherwise. I'd advise shelter and edible plants testing for natural deaths, and still work on the staff training for tribute deaths. Okay, pinpoint to me where Aimee fits in this chart." I scramble to remember Aimee, figuring out how good she was, how smart, and how scared.

"Cornucopia death. Not too far in."

Finn grins at me and I know I got the answer correct. "Good. Now, I need to assist your stylist in the preparation of the costume for tonight. Don't want the All-Element tributes in bowl cuts."

"Costume? Tonight? What for?"

"The dragon ride, of course! Now go take a shower or something, you look and smell filthy." I self-consciously sniff my tunic-shirt and Finn laughs. "Only joking, but do, or your stylist will give a bowl cut." I manage a laugh too and walk into my bedroom, closing the door with a flourish. I had come in without hope. Now I had a plan… Sort of.

My hair still wet from the shower, I pull on my old tunic, which feels scratchy and stiff after all of the fine clothes of Borg Tower. I'm not sure really what to expect of my dragon-ride outfit, so I step out of the bedroom tentatively, as if expecting some flashing light up suit like the Light tributes' training outfits. What I see is so much better.

A rolling mannequin stands in front of my door like a late-night caller from the old movies. I look at the head first, half-wondering if there would be a bowl cut wig, but thankfully there isn't. Instead I see Nindroid outfit. Like a full, metal and everything Nindroid costume, including the belt and electronic eye and everything. I almost fall backwards trying to get away from it, but catch Finn's eye and he grins. "How do you like it?" I right myself and gasp.

"Borg'll kill you!" I see something in Finn's eyes, a pang of emotion, but it's gone as soon as I look again.

"That's a risk I'll have to take, kid. Arden's a Nindroid, too. You'll match."

"Fan-tastic." I drawl sarcastically, imagining myself falling off of my dragon and all the people shouting 'Hey, look at the amazing flying Nindroid!' while Borg watches my fall with relish. This is rebellion – a plain, simple smack in the face, a mockery. Finn or my stylist will be killed, surely. I can't put them in that kind or risk. "Why are you doing this for me?" I ask, looking up at Finn, expecting him to look scared or apprehensive, but I only see a sort of shining pride in his eyes.

"We're here for you, Lloyd. You're getting out of that Arena alive." And he turns and walks into the floor's atrium and out of sight.

"Go on! Change!" My stylist barks at me, eyeing me beadily, looking disappointed that she couldn't give a bowl cut. Before she can pull out the scissors I dive into my bedroom, taking the mannequin, and shut the door firmly.

It takes me nearly an hour to dress. The Nindroid suits seem to be made to keep people out, and if they get in, as uncomfortable as possible. The boots are heavy and sturdily armored, which makes them each weigh approximately as much as a small elephant. The legs are even more supported, with wires running up and down and twisting in complex patterns around my knees. The chest plate-equivalent is way too big for me, but my stylist makes a few adjustments and somehow "takes in" the bulletproof metal so it fits snugly. The arms are heavy too, and I wonder how I'll be able to wave. My fingers feel swollen and clumsy in their metal-gloved casings. Finn manages to extract most of the wires from the suit, but occasionally I'll be poked and prodded by a stray one. The helmet is the worst part, which Finn has changed so it's more of a set of headphones with the Nindroid eye and some official-looking machinery attached to the back. "The crowd needs to see your face," Finn explains. "We want them to know it's you in there."

When my stylist finally completes all of her "finishing touches," I turn to the mirror and look at myself. The suit completely revolutionizes my being. I now look tall and powerful, with the metal somehow making me look strong and important. The Nindroid eye glares dangerously at me from the mirror, daring anyone to look again. The little makeup my stylist put on makes me look darker, more thoughtful, more forceful. I look like a man who is not to be messed with.

Finn gives me a double-thumbs-up of approval and shows me how to walk in my new suit, giving me a few handy tips and tricks of how to operate the machinery. If I'm having trouble, I wonder how Arden is doing with her costume. With much difficulty, I make it down the short flight of stairs to the living room and sit on the couch with a huff, which sags underneath my newly acquired weight with a groan. My stylist still flutters nearby, makeup brushes in hand, looking agitated at my moving about.

"What look am I going for?" I ask curiously, flexing my fingers and attempting to pick up small objects, to no avail.

"More than meets the eye. Strong and powerful. Dangerous. People see you as weak, and then this – they'll be confused, want to know more about the kid they overlooked."

"Won't they think it's just a stylist/mentor plot? To get sponsors?"

Finn smirks. "I'm betting not. And leave the sponsors to me." His tone is mysterious and I want to know more, but before I can ask a loud voice, Pixal's, fills the room from the intercom.

"Attention. All mentors and tributes please make your way to the dragon hangars for pre-dragon ride preparations." Finn helps me up and guides me to the atrium. "Trust me, okay? This'll be good." I have no choice but to trust him, so I nod and walk to the atrium, almost falling over on the slippery floor. Arden emerges from her room and wobbles her way over to the elevator. Her suit looks dangerous, but also feminine, too. How her stylist pulled that look off is beyond me. As soon as we make eye contact she stops me in place with a death glare, like _don't even think about laughing or I'll slap you silly. _I stop thinking about laughing.

The elevator ride is smooth, thankfully, or Arden and I would be falling over each other. On the way down we practice walking, which I'm beginning to get the hang of. The Nindroid guard must be really confused, with two of his fellows in the elevator with him, but if he is he doesn't show it. Then again, a Nindroid is only a robot. Can they experience feelings, too?

The elevator stops and I catch Arden to stop her from falling. Finn and Arden's stylist and mentor walk out and we follow. I step out openly, gaining confidence with each stride, and follow the signs to the All-Element dragon hangar. Tributes and stylists fill the cluttered space, applying makeup and adding stitches to costumes. Everyone stares when I walk past, though, gawking at the Nindroid-kid who walks through the crowd with power and force. They step aside when I approach them. I see some interesting costumes as I maneuver my way to the All-Element hangar. Medli and Daphnes are in black jumpsuits that actually glow, with capes trailing from their shoulders that look like they're make of liquid sunbeams, shimmering and undulating. The Fire tributes' sleeves and shoes are burning – literally on fire – but they don't seem to mind. The Earth tributes have mud speared artfully across their faces. The Metal tributes have gears and cogs working their way up their arms and legs, twisting like an illusion. The Air tributes wear flowy and open clothing, with the girl, Aimee, in a lightweight white dress and oversize silver bangles. The costumes are amazing in their own right, but Arden and I's are easily the best. People will remember the twin Nindroids.

Finn pulls me through a giggling prep team and hustles me down to the hangar where my dragon sits. The beams of twilight streaming through the small windows of the hangar manage to illuminate the enormous figure hunched in the corner. I take a breath as the dragon turns and lumbers towards us, eyeing us with a strangely intelligent look on its face.

The entire dragon is gold, each interlocking scale glowing with a curious sheen, like light passing through a fine veil. Its claws are blunted, but still the size of the gigantic bread knives I saw the bakers use at the Earth market, wicked and dangerous. Its legs are wiry and well-muscled, that I can see through the scales. Its joints are perfectly placed, accenting its fine limbs. Its back is broad, with ridges that were also gold, but a darker color of it, textured and worn, and its tail is spiked down the top in a line. Even the head is magnificent, diamond-shaped like an adder's, with fangs curving from the mouth, but it appears peaceful enough. The entire being seems to radiate with a secret kind of magic.

My thoughts of awe are quickly replaced with those of pain. How could Borg imprison such a beautiful creature? How could he treat it like a plaything?

I step forward unconsciously, my hand outstretched for the dragon's head, staring into its kind eyes, ignoring Finn's low growl of, "Careful." The dragon stares at me for an interminable moment, then closes its eyes and lowers its head in my direction. My palm rests on its head, and I feel the glow of life radiate from its skin into mine. Invigorated, I walk to its shining flank and swing my way up onto one of the pre-positioned saddle, armor and all, then looked down at Finn and Arden, small below me. "Well? Come on then!"

Finn shakes his head incredulously and helps Arden into her saddle. She yelps as she clambers onto her perch and wraps her arms around my waist, then realizes what she is doing and quickly pulls away, not making eye contact. I bite my lip to keep from laughing and pat the dragon's scaly hide.

"All set?" Fin yells from the ground, flashing me a thumbs up.

"Yeah, I think so!" I shout back, wondering if there are seatbelts or anything else we need, but a gigantic roar drowns out my thoughts and I turn to see the hangar doors opening. I glance back at Finn to see him grin and point his index finger to his temple. _Think_. I nod my understanding, but then I'm suddenly whipped around by the dragon turning and Arden grips my waist again. This time, she doesn't let go.

All around me, hangar doors are opening, and I see more dragons and riders ready themselves at the doors. The Light dragon is glowing so much I can't even look at it, the Earth dragon is large and lumbering and somewhat hunch-backed, and the Air dragon is thin and wispy and lean. Each dragon fits the element perfectly. The All-Element dragon opens its jaws and lets out a tremendous roar, causing the other dragons and riders to turn towards us. Some of the dragons bend their necks a little towards my dragon. Others make a snuffling sound and angle their eyes upward in a sign of submission. Then I understand – the All-Element dragon is their leader.

"Welcome to the official dragon ride of the Hunger Games!" Borg's voice echoes throughout the hangars, causing the tributes to wince and hold their ears. "I am proud to present this year's fine batch of tributes and, of course, my own personal supply of elemental dragons!" The crowd screams and roars their applause and praise for Borg. "Yes, yes, thank you all. Now, with no further ado, let us begin!" More cheering. "Air – Aimee Holmes and Michael Bedford!" The wispy Air dragon leans back on its haunches and takes flight, beating its magnificent wings harder and faster as it gains altitude. "Darkness! Ming Mako and Zant Eriksson!" The Darkness dragon is purple, with streaks of black and green running up its flanks and tail and legs. It has a flat face, like it was slammed into the wall repeatedly. Ming is wearing an amazing dress – a purple one studded with diamonds that gleams in the twilight. Zant sits in front of her, dressed in a suit and a purple tie, and his frown I can make out from my perch on the ground. "Earth – Kris Young and Cole Armstrong!" I see the two Earth tributes grip their dragon's scales as it launches itself into the air, straining for the sky.

The dragons steadily leave their hangars, one after the other, until finally only Arden and I are left. We're shaken out of our haze of waiting by Borg's final announcement. "And last but not least, All-Element!" Our dragon leaps into the air with so much force that Arden and I nearly topple off. I manage to clench my fist around a scale ridge and Arden grips me tighter, so we stay on the dragon. As soon as we clear the hangar rooftops the crowd gets a good look at us. Silence. A collective gasp fills the stadium seating that lines the road. All of the other dragons and their riders are forgotten. All eyes are on the All-Element tributes.

And then suddenly the entire crowd begins to cheer –screaming and shouting and throwing their programs in the air. "LLOYD!" My name is yelled at me from all directions and I turn in my saddle to wave at the crowd, grinning. "ARDEN!" The hands around my waist release and I swivel around to see Arden shyly waving at the audience. "ALL-ELEMENT!" We are the center of attention. I take a moment of prayer to bless Finn and my stylist, thanking them for the chance they have given me in the Games. People are aware of the All-Element tributes, now. We are no longer invisible.

The dragon ride is a blur from our entry to the dismissal. The other dragons frolic around the stands and in the road to Borg Tower, spurting ice or lightning out of their mouths and sweeping so close to the audience that I can see their hair ruffle. My dragon, not one to be left out of the fun, beats its wings to fly higher and shoots a puff of golden sparkly material out of its mouth – then I realize the sparkles are pure gold. The crowd jumps onto their feet and yell themselves hoarse for All-Element again, and I pat my dragon's side. "Good one." I could swear he snorts, though, like, _what did you expect_?

The dragon ride can't last forever, though, and soon all of the dragons are grounded and Borg is giving an announcement to the audience about the upcoming Games, and we're dismissed. The dragons take a final lap around the Tower, then fly back to their hangars, wings beating loudly. My dragon dips down towards the open hangar door and Arden grabs me again. I wonder if she's afraid of heights.

Finn is waiting for us in the hangar, his face frozen in an enormous smile. "Amazing. Amazing." He keeps saying, which I know is incredible praise for him, and he helps both me and Arden down. "Perfect. Couldn't have been any better. The Nindroid costumes – golden. Everything was perfect. You guys…" He runs a hand through his hair and takes a shaky breath of awe. "That could do it. They notice you now. They needed to see you and now they will. I just stopped talking to the press." If possible, his grin widens still. "They wanted to know all about you. There were a few reporters at some other elements, but I had the most, easily." Suddenly, he winks. "Some girl's magazine – you know, like gossip and fashion ones –" He catches our blank expressions. "The younger ladies at Borg Tower like to read fashion magazines, you know, like clothes and stuff…" The only clothes we had in the Complex were tunics, and those were hardly fashionable. "Well, anyways, their little gossip magazine is making a Hunger Games issue tomorrow. They do it every year. They're always hilarious. Hilarious crap, I mean, but hilarious all the same. Last year they were going on about how dark and secretive this guy is, made him sound like a ninja or something." Instantly my brain connects ninjas and Finn, thinking about the link between them…

Finn is interrupted by Arden's stylist, telling us we need to go. Arden and Finn jog towards the door, talking about fashion magazines, but I lag behind, giving my dragon a pat on the hide. "On you, when we were riding…" I speak without thinking, trying to make sense of the dragon ride. "That was the only time I felt like I was doing something right. You know, like in the Training Center I was hopeless. Even the staff thing… But riding a dragon feels right. Thanks for that." The dragon tosses his head and snorts, and I take it as a you're-welcome and you-should-get-going. "Right. But, just… Thanks." And I turn my back on the dragon and walk out the hangar, alone.

**Maybe not so mysterious as the last few, but still... You're probably just wanting to get to the Hunger Games already, right? Well... You've got a while to go. However, I like the upcoming chapters and hope that you will too. Farewell for now, dear reader!**


	18. Chapter 18

**Overdue a few days, but we're here nonetheless! Longer(ish) chapter, so perhaps that can make up for its being late ;). Now, do go on...**

_Chapter Eighteen – Kai_

I wake up the day after the dragon ride early, but I hear the sound of cooking from the kitchen, so someone else must be up too. Wearily, I get out of my bed and pull on my training clothes, which I spent most of last night cutting the fringe and decals off of, and walk into the living room. To my surprise, I see Kent sitting on the couch, reading one of those gossip-girl magazines that the younger traders bargain for.

"Have you read this?" He asks, eyes streaming with laughter. "Oh, god, this is awful!" He shoves a copy to me, and I read the front cover – 'The Hunger Games edition.' Captioned, 'Learn all of your tribute's secrets!' 'Potential Victors? Polls just in!' 'Who is the manliest tribute this year? Borg Tower residents choose!' I nearly gag at the cover itself, but force myself to open it to the first page – a table of contents with weapons and Borg Enterprises logos lining it like a very deadly fringe. The first eighteen pages are 'Meet the Tributes,' with a bio on each page, along with color images and quotes from various Borg Enterprises employees about the tribute. Curious, I flip a few pages and read about a few of my competitors.

"Scarlett Newman – age fifteen, tribute for Metal. Scarlett caught our eye at the Reaping with her clever looks and demeanor. She is a very strong tribute, who will easily claim high scores in the Gamemaker review later this week. On Scarlett's past – she is a very smart young woman, whose mother was an Ice and father was Metal. She gets high grades in school. Very secretive about past boyfriends or anything of the like. Scarlett has gotten in some trouble with Complex police – a fighter for sure! We like it! Some speculate about Scarlett and her district partner, Sawyer? Could there be something?" I stop reading there and groan loudly. Kent is still laughing. "Read some of the others!" I skip to the Ice girl's page, which is basically a recitation of all of the academic awards she's received, then to Ming's, which goes on and on about some "dark secret" she keeps hidden. Finally I find my page, with large pictures of me at the Reaping and me playing basketball.

"Kai Burns – heartthrob of Borg Tower!" It declares. "What!?" I shout, throwing the magazine down like it contains some disease.

"No, no, it gets better!" Kent declares, and I steel myself and open the magazine. "Coming in very high in the 'Manliest Tribute' poll taken recently, it became evident that this Fire hotshot has stolen the hearts of girls everywhere." I feel the urge to return the hearts. "Although he may seem easy to read at a first glance, Kai is clearly much deeper that what meets the eye. You may think that he's just a guy who plays basketball, or that he's simply another tribute. Be not fooled, readers! This man is layered and complex as the Complex itself!" I have to stop reading there and turn to Kent.

"Where did they get this… stuff?"

Kent wipes tears from his eyes and gasps for air. "They, they interviewed the Nindroids and some other sources for information. Keep reading!"

"A few of our informers have information of every girl's favorite tribute sneaking out of the Complex and going who knows where? He never attended school for years! With a dark and secretive past, who knows what Kai is hiding? Will he reveal his hidden information? You, reader, will be the first to know!" I sit on the couch with a thump and throw the magazine at the window. "Toss me a blanket, Kent, I'm feeling very secretive! Let's go sneak around Borg Tower and kick some Nindroids around and be handsome!" Kent begins to cry-laugh again, and I pick up the magazine off the floor, glaring at its cover. "That's not the end of it! The Darkness boy is a dealer, the Light boy – wow. That was a weird page. The Earth tributes are farmers trying to scrape a living off of a small plot of land. The All-Element tributes are like amazing models or something," Kent snorts derisively, "And the Fire tributes are smokin' hot!"

I groan again. "Just shut up. Please."

Kent waves a hand. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. This is the best part of the Games. This magazine." He holds his copy and moves it like a flag.

"I'd hate to see the Hunger Games, then." I mutter quietly, and place my magazine on the table, leaving Kent to his reading.

Discouraged to go do anything after the magazine, seeing as they'd take it as another merit to my virile-ness, I walk into the kitchen, where the helpful robot, my personal maid of sorts, is making breakfast.

"Good morning, Master Kai. What would you like to have for your morning meal?" I sit at the table, where another copy of the gossip magazine lies.

"Do me a favor and burn this for me, will you?" The robot takes the magazine and tosses it in the incinerator – yeah, there's one in the kitchen.

"You surely do not want to eat _that_ for your morning meal, do you, Master Kai?" I laugh and shake my head.

"No, no. I'll just have some toast or something." The robot acts with swift precision, rolling over to the fancy fifty-plus buttoned toaster and taking the break out for me.

"Would you like jam, butter, marmalade…"

I cut off the robot's recitation of spreads and say loudly, "On second thought, I'm going for a walk. See you later." Kent gives a weak and wheezy 'okay' from the living room, and I can hear his laughter until I walk out the door and shut it firmly.

The dragon ride brought up much new information, confusing and jumbled with half-formed data and codes. The All-Element tributes are not to be ignored, that's for sure. Though the Nindroid thing was easily a mentor plan, if they had smart mentors they could be smart, too. Borg was none too happy about their costumes, either, but you didn't need a trader's view to see that. How carefully measured his voice was, the clenching of his hands, the flash in his eyes – all clues to his displeasure.

The mentors were in trouble, surely, but they would probably keep them alive until Lloyd or Arden died. If they won and their mentors had suddenly disappeared, even a person who could remotely use their brain could figure that out. It took nerve, risking it all for two mediocre tributes. Why would they try to save them? Did they have a plan?

Even the god-awful magazine polls contain good data, like who is a likely contender and who surely is not. I'm half convinced to go see who the manliest tribute is, just for the sake of it, but there are real things going on, things I need to figure out. Magazines and televisions and sports – all distractions from the real world. Who cares is Borg kills dozens of policemen if we get to see a new cinematic?

Training will start soon, so I enter the elevator without waiting for Stirling and press the button for the Training Center floor. On the way down I order some food, which I'll need before the training begins, and it arrives in about two seconds. Impressed, I raise a toast to the Nindroid guard in the elevator and eat my bacon and eggs in silence until we reach the floor. Hastily I shove the food into the Nindroid's arms and walk out the elevator doors, feeling refreshed.

I'm the third tribute to arrive, with the two Ice tributes ahead of me, always punctual, walking with straight backs and perfect posture. The elevator doors ding behind me and the Light girl gets out, looks around for her Career friends, and, seeing that they're not here yet, stands by the side of the elevator doors and waits. Alliances always seem shifty to me – putting your trust in the most untrustworthy people – but in a situation like the Hunger Games I can see why it would seem necessary. Yet, an alliance with six people… That's a lot of trust in all the wrong places.

The Training Center doors are wide open and I stroll through them, looking at all of the stations and weapons and ropes and ladders that fill the enormous space. The Ice tributes stand before Livia respectfully, and I stand behind them, but my eyes find not the head instructor but the Gamemakers' box up above. There they sit, with their clipboards ready. Some sip spindly glasses of champagne, which surely can't be good in the morning. A few still look half-asleep. Them I respect, the only ones that appear remotely human. Large tables behind them are stacked with food and drink, from huge barrels of chilled fruit to six stuffed turkeys and everything in between, but the Gamemakers don't seem to notice. They are watching us.

Livia gives us the talk again, about how we can't engage in combat with each other and all that, then we're dismissed. Yesterday I practiced the survival booths, and today I plan to try out some of the extensive weapons offered to us. _Very _extensive. There are so many tools of destruction in the Training Center I don't know where to start. The most basic weapons seem to be the best place to start, but the Careers have already flocked to them. Instead I walk a good distance down the targets and stand meaningfully in front of the instructor. He's a wispy man, with hair drifting almost lazily over his scalp, and he looks up at me with surprise through alcohol-clouded eyes when I show that I want to try out his weapons. Letting out a long and vile breath, he picks up a tomahawk, gestures a throwing motion weakly, then sits down on his chair roughly. I pick up the tomahawk, and, feeling foolish, throw it at the target. I'm hoping for it to stick, and am surprised when it wobbles over and lands in the blue ring. Tomahawk Man grunts and picks up his own mini-axe, shows me how to grip the handle, then throws the weapon into the bulls-eye. I adjust my hand on the tomahawk and throw it again, and this time the blade lands in the yellow circle. My tomahawk throwing gets me another grunt from Tomahawk Man, but he instructs me no further. Time is hard to judge in the Training Center, but I assume I practice with the tomahawk for about an hour, until I get a pretty good grasp on the weapon. Its rotations in the air depend on certain factors and variables, about one half-turn per five feet, and the grip does matter more than I realized. Soon I'm making bulls-eyes easily. I glance over at the Tomahawk Man, expecting some sort of praise, but he's dozing in his chair. _Let sleeping dogs lie_, I think, and move on to a new weapon.

Knife throwing isn't much different from tomahawk throwing, so I do well at that, too, learning how the different knives shapes and sizes affect its speed and accuracy. The knife instructor even seems moderately impressed when I finish, earning me some nasty looks from Sawyer and the Air boy, whose name I still don't know. Sawyer's glare is menacing enough, though, so I quickly set the knives down and walk/jog to a different station.

The staff-fighting station is occupied by Lloyd, who I will henceforth and forevermore see as a Nindroid. The All-Element boy seems to be concentrating on the instructor's moves, learning his style. An impressive approach for a boy of his age, but he's still taking many hits. Silently I walk past and find a new station.

I try out a host of weapons in the span of about ten minutes. There's mace fighting, which feels barbaric and all you do with it is bludgeon your opponent to death. Next I attempt crossbow shooting, then shooting with a normal bow. I can get by with the weapons, but I'm no shot like Daphnes is. Finally I try spear throwing, which is actually pretty hard, but after twenty spears and only one hit target, I decide that the weapon is not my strong suit. I wind up back with Tomahawk Man, who has woken up but still looks on the verge of collapse. I can't even tell if he remembers me or not. Whatever the case, I'm glad for the company – the company of a real person, not one of the robot-like instructors. Then again, it's Borg Tower. Everything is robot-like here.

After maybe thirty minutes I move to swordfighting, which, similar to basketball, I actually like. The instructor helps me find a decently balanced – and safety-padded – sword to use, and he guides me through a few basic strokes. His style is meticulous; it's clear he's not used to losing or making mistakes. I can even tell by small movements he makes when instructing me that Daphnes' skill shook him up. I can use that to my advantage.

I spend the first few minutes sparring, learning his movements, pinpointing his weak spots, taking some hits. The instructor looks bored, lazily waving his sword at me in a way that's almost deliberately insulting. The tables need to turn. I hold my sword up in front of me in ready position, feet apart, poised for action. The instructor doesn't notice my sudden alertness and takes a short swipe at my side. I catch the sword's edge with my own and shove the blade backwards. Suddenly off balance, my instructor moves back and his arms raise ever so slightly in the typical way when one is falling. My sword blade thuds into his side audibly and he swivels to face me, eyes dancing with a new light. Ferociously, he attacks me, but I'm able to accurately predict his moves and effectively counterattack. Slowly, he begins to back up.

Our mock battle progresses and the blows become stronger and more dangerous, with me barely escaping a swinging sword blade to the head or legs. My body is alert and in tune with the sword, though, and I feel a sort of confidence rise up inside of me. I can beat this guy. Soon my strokes are more powerful, also, stabbing at the instructor's chest and legs viciously. The overconfidence in the instructor's eyes slowly gives way to fear. His sword lowers and I seize the moment, twisting my sword into his guard and flipping the blade skyward. The instructor's sword flies into the air, turns gracefully, and lands with a dull 'thunk' on the training mat. The Gamemakers turn in sync and look at me, sword still ready, and at my instructor, scrambling on the mat for his weapon. A few look down at their clipboards and take notes.

I don't get to see my instructor's expression because as soon as he is disarmed we are called for lunch. I put my training sword back on its rack and walk to the cafeteria alone, getting a few looks from the other tributes. The Careers are in their usual pack, but today they talk in hushed voices, maybe pretending to be secretive. If their appearance is genuine, I can't tell. The Careers are a slippery slope when it comes to guesswork, even in trading. Sometimes even the betters lose money on them – you can never tell if they're being truthful or not. Will they stay an alliance? Who will kill the other? The betters don't know the complexity of lies – especially when it comes to the Games, tributes or otherwise.

I eat alone, same as yesterday, ignoring the taste of my food and chewing robotically, swallowing periodically. The feasts laid out for us are superb, but of all the times to enjoy good food, before the Games is certainly not one of them. I'm so consumed with my own thoughts that I don't notice the two girls sit in front of me until I look up again.

Careers, both of them. Medli and Scarlett. Medli smiles openly at me, in a way that looks kind but makes me feel uncomfortable, but Scarlett just glares at me, sizing me up.

"Hi!" Medli says brightly, and I gauge her enthusiasm to be partly forced. Using all of my trading expertise, I make my voice as monotonous and unreadable as possible.

"Hi." I catch Scarlett narrow her eyes and know she is judging my words. Does she trade?

"We saw you sparring with the swords instructor." Medli picks up the conversation. So she wants to recruit me. I know how these deals go – the Careers try to pick up strong tributes from other elements, who usually die along the way, never the victors.

"Oh?" I reply, raising an eyebrow, almost in a teasing way to Scarlett, who must be frustrated from the lack of clues I'm giving her.

"Yeah! It was great!" Medli gushes, and I have to resist the urge to laugh.

"Not as good as your hero-guy you've got there," I say, nodding my head towards Daphnes, who is eating his sandwich solemnly. Medli giggles but I can sense the tension she's feeling. "You want me to join you." I say, still keeping my voice low and my tone neutral. If Medli was trying to hide her motives, she gives it away by jumping a little.

"What? Oh, well…" She leans in like she's about to tell me a secret, and I don't copy the motion. "We need, you know, all around people. The boys are just jocks." She rolls her eyes dramatically. "And Scarlett and I are smart. But we saw you. You learn fast. You're smart, too, I can tell." If it's a compliment, I ignore it, and the fact that it's coming from a Career makes it seem even more false. "We want you in our alliance. The rules are binding. We're a team." I can't keep back a small snort of disbelief and Scarlett flinches. "We want you. You know what an honor this is? I mean, come on. Look at these kids." She laughs a little, more of a disdainful snicker, really. "We could win." Medli sits back in her chair and grins again. "So, yeah? What do you say?" To everyone's surprise, even my own, I stand and take my tray.

"With all due respect, I'll have to decline. Your consideration is gratifying." I turn and walk to a different table, set down my tray heavily, and hope the two girls don't pursue me.

Thankfully, the Career girls stroll back to their table and shake their heads. The Metal and Earth boys act astonished and inquire further, but Daphnes doesn't respond. Had he predicted my declining their offer? I look down at my food, even less appetizing then it was earlier. Medli is in their trap, Borg's trap. _We're a team. The rules are binding. _The most basic laws of alliances, laid out by Borg himself. Alliances are part of the Games themselves. Medli believes that promises are kept, that teams are teams for good. Ideals set by Borg – ideals broken every day that she and innumerable others are too blind to see. How can they ignore the flaws of our society, of ourselves? We are greedy and grasping, traits thrown into relief while in the Games. Can she really be so blind to think that her precious alliance won't be severed in an instant?

I'm relieved when lunch is over and I can distract myself from my own thoughts.

Post-lunch time I spend shooting the crossbow and normal bow, then head back to the survival stations and learn some more basic skills. The shelter-building station I like the best because I puzzle over its cipher for a while, which is many-layered and complex, but when I figure it out the instructor smiles at me and brings out even harder images to determine worthy of my shelter-building time. Some of it is obvious – rock dangling near a giant chasm, no – but often the real answers differentiate from what I would assume. I'll have to remember the cipher in the Games, assuming Borg doesn't realize I've cracked one of his precious codes and change it altogether. The code has parallels to other Borg Enterprises products, like the Nindroids and the doorknobs and basic things, so I know it's been man-made. Every code is another step closer to Borg Enterprises, though.

I hop from station to station until the tributes are dismissed. The Careers haven't given me a second glance since I turned down their alliance offer, and I don't mind. If they ignore me hopefully they will forget about me and I won't be one of their targets in the Games – even though by declining I've just about secured myself a spot on their blacklist.

Unfortunately I'm crammed into an elevator with Sawyer and the Earth girl, Kris, who aggressively uses her elbows to make room for herself in the confined space, and the Darkness boy, Zant, who smiles unpleasantly at us all. I find myself jammed in the corner next to the Nindroid guard, who certainly isn't budging to give any of us more room. No one attempts to make conversation, though the Earth girl clears her throat nervously a few times, only making the situation more awkward. Zant twists his earring, still smiling, and I wonder if he's going to use the sharp end to stab us or something, but his floor comes and he gets off the elevator. My floor is next, and I happily leave the company of the Careers and press the 'close doors' button on my way out.

Kent is waiting for me at the door, a habit I find annoying but is apparently mandatory. As soon as I step into the atrium he assaults me with questions. 'How was training? How are the Careers shaping up? Anything you're really good at? Any death threats? Those are pretty common." He chuckles softly and holds open the door so I can walk in, a strange gesture in and of itself, and I step into the living room and crash on one of the couches. Kent is innocent – that much I know – but if he has contacts that could help me I will need his support.

"First question," I hold up my index finger, "Training. It was fine. Second question, Careers, who are just about good at everything in the Training Center. Third question, I guess I'm good at the knives and projectiles and I like the sword. Fourth question, no death threats yet."

Kent nods, taking it all in. "Right, right. Careers…" He makes a grunting sound and shakes his head. "To be rid of them…"

"Might as well crown me victor then! We can ride our victory dragon into the sunset."

Kent groans. "I remember my dragon ride. I fell off and dangled about ten feet below the dragon, held only by the safety rope around my waist – but who am I to reminisce when we have training to do!" Now that Kent and I are on better terms he has insisted on "training" me, or telling me some handy tips and tricks I can use in the arena. Most of it is basic everyone-knows-that stuff, but some of the information is valuable, like the common positions of the tributes who hide and how to spot places where "natural" disasters could be induced.

Training is short today because Kent has some victor's meeting to attend to and I'm left alone for a few hours, which isn't that bad. I watch a few movies on the TV in my room, which are unfortunately Borg-approved, and use a broom from the janitorial closet to practice the sword strokes I learned in training. With a few bits of rope I manage to tie a sack of pillows and blankets to the elegant ceiling fan and fabricate a decently good punching bag, which I'm still using when Kent walks in. I expect him to be mad, but he just laughs a little and says, "Couldn't go to the gym?" To which I reply, "I guess I didn't want to be seen."

Of course there are cameras in the rooms, and every time I cover one up or block one it seems like three more spring up in its place. Wherever we go we are watched. To Kent this may seem minor, but to me it only enhances the prison-like aspects of Borg Tower. Even if I'm a victor, life after the Games will still be a prison. I'll always be watched, always be monitored, always be apart from the life I used to live. My future is no brighter than my past. There's no going back.

**Such drama, amirite? We still have a ways to go before the Games, though... But I believe it's worth the wait. Has it been too long since I gave a proper thank-you? Every read means so much, so I bestow upon you my gratification (thanks!) Until we meet again, dear reader!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Aaaaah the first rebel chapter! (kind of) I'm really excited for the next chapters to come, too.**

**Apologies for the wait - again. Hopefully this will not be a recurring problem ;)**

**But what interests you is below, correct? Tarry here no longer!**

Chapter Nineteen - Wu

Garmadon stands next to me on the bridge, poised to jump. The very tips of my shoes go over the edge of the concrete and I gulp as I look down at the raging river below – far below, churning the water into frothy swirls, speckled with jagged rocks. The cold night air bites into me and I can smell the river even up on the bridge, the smell of water and of sewage and of mud, mingling together. Garmadon's face is set and he keeps checking his watch, making sure we're on time. "We can't miss this jump," he mutters, and I can't tell if he's talking to me or to himself. Maybe both.

I learned everything that night. Garmadon told me about the rebellion. It had started small, with a few young guys getting a few too many tools and running off somewhere, never to be seen again. They were assumed dead. How they got past Borg is beyond me, maybe in a lapse of security, but they were free. They then used their knowledge and resources to build a small colony, to thrive, to grow, and to gradually build an army against Borg. Over the years more and more people fled to the sanctuary. But more and more people died because of it.

Scouts were often sent into the Complex to try to gather followers and escort them to the rebel base. One of the scouts was a teacher who taught the thirteens that Borg had gotten onto. She had only a few days left. She began to tell the students about the real history of Ninjago, and they just laughed. She was killed not too long afterwards. Many scouts brought enthusiasts to the base. Yet every day it seemed that a scout would go missing. Every day another friend would not return.

Garmadon had learned about the rebels through recruitment and somehow gotten to them and told them about his rank in the factory. He was the perfect agent – high ranking, Borg-smitten children, no record, a good citizen. He had been working for the rebels by gathering information on the changes of the modern times. If Borg was tightening security, he would tell them. If Borg killed a policeman, he would tell them.

The rebels were growing much bigger and much stronger, its influence even able to be felt in the Complex. Trading was booming, with too many classified secrets flying around in the limbo. Borg began to feel himself sliding a little bit, so he took action. Bomb the outpost, make Nindroid guards, show the citizens he had more power than ever. The rebels needed to extend a hand to the citizens who could think for themselves, who knew what was going on, or at least who wanted too. Things were changing, and Borg was only making things worse.

People started flooding to the rebel base, seeking protection, solace, and answers. Men were recruited. Spies were made. Children were saved. The slaughtering continued though, with Borg executing those he thought were threats. And the people continued their everyday lives, with their minds on the Hunger Games.

Oh, the Hunger Games – the rebels' pride and joy. No wonder Garmadon had to make sure I was on his side before giving me the information on the rebels. I had joined wholeheartedly. The rebels stand a chance, anyone can see. But Borg is so strong… And Nindroids are being churned out every day. Can the rebels fight that?

I grip my hat in my hand to keep it from flying away in the wind. Garmadon's tunic snaps in the wind and I see him check his watch again. We've gone over the plan a million times, but he begins to tell me again.

"It's a drop off, they said. They'll be here. The signal, you remember?" I nod, but Garmadon doesn't look towards me. His eyes are on the rocky water below us.

The rebels plan to take us to the base where we'll be briefed and given our assignments. Anyone else looking will think we're jumping. Then again, Garmadon did have to use a traded stun gun to get past the Nindroids to find the bridge. I doubt anyone is looking now.

The wind howls around me even more now, the cold ripping through my tunic, seemingly pushing me closer to the edge. To demise. To fate.

No, not fate. Rescue. Salvation.

When the signal comes it is small, almost lost in the wind and the water and the sheer panic of jumping. How far gone people must be to just heave themselves over the barrier to certain death! I hear it, and Garmadon does too. A faint whistle. A familiar tune, one we are all so accustomed to – the anthem of Ninjago. It's a quick tune, a brisk and easy one, the notes lifting and catching in the wind, tumbling down shafts of air and soaring up the updrafts. Garmadon doesn't even hesitate. He swings his arms and leaps for the water. My feet shuffle indecisively on the pavement, and time slows. Should I go? Should I stay? My heart beats with uncanny leisure. What would happen if I fell to my death? Just smashed to smithereens on the rocks, gone forever, not even remembered? I remember all of the pictures with DECEASED stamped upon them. I would join their ranks – the ranks of the dead.

Misako. Lloyd. What would they do? We would die a coward's death. But are we really all just cowards? Fleeing to the protection of the rebels? I look down at Garmadon's falling body. No. We can help them. We have a plan. We have a future.

Cursing myself and my foolishness, I jump.

The curious time-slowing doesn't stop when my feet lift off and I begin to descend. Instead it slows even more still as my body rotates, giving me a view of the last sights I will surely ever see, the menacing black rocks at the water's edge, soon to be stained red. Will Lloyd see our fate on television? Will Borg use it against him, a tool, a sign of his weakness? Something clenches inside of me, steeling me against the terror of the fall. Borg using me against Lloyd. That is why I am running, that is why I am fleeing. I am doing so for him.

And suddenly the water before me is not water. The rocks are no longer rocks. The air distorts and twists below me, and it forms the shape of some sort of flying device – the likes of some on display in the library. I vaguely think, the rebels have a plane? before falling into darkness. The water unfolds below me, and I see a loading bay with a mattress on the bottom. Armed guards point their weapons at us, impressive guns with scopes and silencers. And we fall. Right into the cargo hold, right through the trapdoor, and – bang! – right into darkness.

I kneel on the mattress, pushing myself away from the foul-smelling thing, and feel for my limbs. Arms – check. Legs – check. Head – check. A groan to my left alerts me that Garmadon is nearby. The mattress creaks as he and I stand.

Even though I can't see, voices and sounds echo throughout the hold.

"Calibrating image of falling, bodies identified, all clear."

"Initiate countdown."

"Aaaaaand… Contact!"

As soon as the last man finishes speaking a raucous cheering fills the cargo hold. Hands reach out from all sides and grab at me, some shaking my hand, some clapping me on the back, and some slugging me playfully (but hard) in the arm.

"New recruits? Or informers?" A flashlight beam penetrates the darkness and does a run up Garmadon and I. "They look kinda old to be recruits…" One man says, confusedly.

"We're not recruits!" Garmadon calls out, addressing the whole hold.

"Good!" Someone replies, "Because I was getting worried here!" The hold erupts in laughter, and even I can't resist a small grin. One man shoves his way forward, also holding a flashlight. The laughter falls to respectful silence. Instantly I realize I'm in the presence of some kind of leader.

"All right, all right, that's enough. Back to work, mates, go on." The leader stands directly in front of Garmadon and I and squints, scrutinizing us. "You're the drop-offs?" He asks. No, just two chums jumping off a bridge, thanks for asking. Next to me, Garmadon nods, lowering his head in a sign of approval along with submission.

"Yes, sir. We are."

The leader-man rolls his eyes, then shakes his head, rubbing his whiskered chin. "First thing you gotta know about us – there aren't any "sirs" except for Command. I'm a squad leader."

"A what?" Thankfully, Garmadon is as confused as I am.

"You'll get the talk at base. Now get out of this filthy Singles hole and come with me."

Carefully Garmadon and I pick out way out of the hold, occasionally stubbing our toe on some unseen box or supply. The soldiers around us quietly get back to their tasks, and I see how obedient they are. Of course, every factory worker in Ninjago, or any worker at all, displayed some kind of reluctance, although it may have just been the normal work-is-so-tiring-am-I-right kind of attitude. These men are doing what they want to do, need to do. They have purpose.

The walls of the plane funnel into a single door that the squad leader palms and it opens, revealing a fairly spacious cockpit with a pilot in his seat. Both men, the squad leader and the pilot, are young – in fact, everyone here is. Do they need older men to help them, even as advisors?

The pilot speak to us first, not looking away from his controls. "The name's Louis. I would shake your hand, but…" He gestures with his head around the cockpit. "And this dashing young fellow is Quill." The squad leader who led us in nods in our direction, smiling slightly. "Did you check on the babies? Change their diapers?" Louis smirks, addressing Quill.

"Yup. Load of suckers."

"Have they gotten any balls yet?" Both men laugh loudly and cast knowing glances back at the door.

"Not yet, but hey, a man can dream." The two soldiers have a sort of slang language they use, their voices rising and falling in a carefree demeanor. Even for a slang lingo, their talk seems somewhat civilized.

Both soldiers turn to face Garmadon and I, as if suddenly remembering our existence. "Where are my manners? Welcome to the cockpit. Sit down." Quill shows us to a table crammed into one of the cockpit's corners, stuffed with maps and books and manuals. I clear a spot on one of the moldy fabric chairs and tentatively sit down, praying the chair will hold. Thankfully, it does.

"What's with the patches?" Garmadon points to Quill's left sleeve, which has three symbols sewn onto its surface – not the perfect elemental symbols that are tacked onto everything back home, but strange lines and shapes I can't make sense of.

"You'll pick up on the system soon. Fairly simple." Quill drawls, examining his sleeve with new interest. "I have three patches, ya see? If you were a newbie I'd count 'em for ya." Louis snorts from the pilot's seat.

"They don't have half the brain cells to tell if they need to take a crap or not."

Quill kicks Louis' chair. "Neither did you, pretty boy, now let me tell granddad about our system." That quiets Louis down and he focuses on the controls.

"Back at base you take a test, like the Borg-brained thirteens do back at Complex. It assigns you into a guild – a group of people, a lot of people, who have similar skills as you. If you're really good you can get elevated to a squad, and the best get to be squad leaders."

"Which is why it's a mystery this guy has his patch sewn on." Louis calls out.

"The first patch is your guild sign. See this here? Army. All soldiers, all one guild. Then there's the different squads. You've got infantry squads and the pilot's squads and the submarine warfare squad – buncha idiots if I ever saw – but you get the picture. Most ordinary army men are squad-less, like the fellas back there. One patch. Singles." Louis snickers from his seat. "When you get in a squad you get a second patch – see this one? Pilot's squad, Army guild. Got that?" Garmadon and I nod silently. "Good now. Then there's the squad leader's patch here. I'm a pilot squad leader. So is Louis. Only squad leaders can fly the planes. There's none too many planes, and only a few promising pilots, so it's not really a problem. The only people worth your time talking to are three-patches. Half the Doubles don't even know how to hitch their tightie whities on."

"Got that right," Louis replies, "I had to teach one the other day."

"Ah, to be young," Quill sighs, taking a pose of reminiscence, and I smile.

"Will we be Singles?" Garmadon asks, looking confused, like he's still trying to grasp the new information. I'm with him there.

"Nah, at least Doubles. You'll probably be in the Tactical guild, if I had to say. The squads there are basically strategy groups and advisory teams. The purpose of squads and squad leaders shifts from each guild, each squad. In Army they're our basic leaders."

"What about generals and all that? Who leads you?" Louis and Quill drop their rebel acting and stare at us grimly.

"That would be Command. They don't operate in guilds, just jobs and positions. Head Strategist, General, and our leader. Call him God, Satan, Marx or Hitler, but we have Thrace."

So this is the leader of the rebels. Thrace. His name rings no bell, and I rack my brain trying to think of a time I heard of him. Thrace. Nothing.

Louis picks up conversation. "Thrace is our leader. Not really a president, not really a dictator… Just a leader. He's led the rebels since our formation. When Thrace say 'Shoot,' you put a bullet in yourself. When Thrace say 'Attack,' you give the enemies hell. Whenever Thrace walks by the toilets he scares the crap out of them." Quill slips out of rebel lingo when Louis finishes.

"He's a good leader, and that sounds bull, but he is. Not just that he can plan an attack or hack a system or predict an outcome, but he wins his troops. Not by force, not by barter, just… Wins them. Why do you think we all obey? It sounds bull, I said, but you'll see when you meet him. He's powerful. Some the Singles call him Jesus."

"What do you call him?"

"Me? I shut my mouth and respect him. No one cares what you're called, or how many patches some old granny sewed on your shirt. Thrace is our leader, and the Singles are Borg-brained to believe Jesus-on-Earth-again. Then again, we're all Borg-brained. Take Louis, here…"

The conversation lapses into Louis and Quill bantering with each other, and Garmadon and I sit quietly, hands in laps, thinking over our new information. Squads… Thrace… Guilds… I glance at my brother and his eyes meet mine. The eyes I knew so well. The eyes I can learn to know again.

Is this what you thought when you joined the rebels, Garmadon? Was the clueless thing an act for me? Go ahead and pull out your jumpsuit, show me your patches. How long did I stay under Borg's yoke while you were gaining ranks in a rebel uprising? Quill and Louis finally fall silent and Quill takes the copilot's seat. For the rest of the plane ride we sit in silence, not making a sound, the time filled with the buzzing of the engine.

If I look up I can barely see the window above me, but we're not low enough to see terrain, and Louis and Quill's chairs effectively block out the plane's from view. Garmadon doesn't look like he wants to talk, and somehow that is welcome. Only when Louis announces our descent does the silence, thick and potent, break.

"I'll go tell the babies to tie their shoes," Quill stands and stretches, then palms open the door back to the cargo hold and exits the cockpit. The plane tilts forward and a few books and maps skitter across the metal floor to the other side. I rise to retrieve them, but Louis raises a hand to stop me.

"Don't bother. The Service guild always comes in later and cleans up all of our pilot crap." I sit back onto my spindly chair and the plane tilts more still. Garmadon clenches the arms of his chair tightly as the plane rattles and tilts more. Quill pokes his head in for a moment and laughs, but not unkindly.

"Don't worry, Pops. Louis is the best pilot we got." Then he's gone and the door slides shut again. Garmadon gulps and tries to make eye contact, which I ignore.

When the plane finally touches down, making the soldiers in the hold cheer and clap, I rise shakily to my feet and Louis escorts Garmadon and I to the hold, where a ramp unfolds and the soldiers make lines to file out. Quill lags behind, occasionally shouting at a certain soldier to shut up and get back in line or to straighten his collar. I get the feeling he enjoys his influence.

Together, Louis, Quill, Garmadon, and I walk down the ramp and into the dazzling sunlight, slightly cramped and hunched from sitting in the cockpit. But what I see next makes me straighten up and gasp in awe.

"There it is, boys. The rebel base. Don't see stuff like that in the Complex, huh?"

**I wonder if anyone actually reads these author's notes... But oh well. **

**This may seem random, but I put out a poll on a whim a while back about what I should write next. I have a pretty good inspiration for another fanfic, but your input is always of value. And speaking of input, please review! Don't just read this, be like "oh, yeah, I'll pass." Even if you think this story is awful and just don't want another DNF on your plate. I love hearing from you guys, so go right ahead!**

**I bid thee farewell tonight. Thanks a million! *waves***


	20. Chapter 20

**This is the 20th chapter - it seems like we should have a party or something! If you bring drinks I'll get food. **

**But enough about parties and such... We return to Borg Tower.**

Chapter Twenty - Ming

Today I follow all of the tributes to the Training Center, but we wait outside the closed doors, anxiety radiating off of us in waves, even the Careers, who try to look put together yet still can't keep the beads of sweat from forming on their brows. Our wait is anticipated, and chairs sit outside the door, colored for elements. The seats are rubbery and remind me of school, those hours spent while teachers whittled Borg-approved messages into my head, the only thing keeping me going being something even Borg knew nothing of. Zant takes the seat next to me and has the nerve to give me a half smile. I have to suppress the urge to pummel him to pulp.

"The private Gamemaker sessions will now begin. Elements will be called in Reaping order, beginning with Air, boys before girls. Michael Bedford." The Air boy stands, knees knocking together, and steps up to the door. They open for a split second before he slips in, and every tributes shifts in their seats to see inside. But whoosh – the doors shut – and Michael is gone. For an eerie moment, it's almost like he's died, gone and erased from existence, from our consciousness.

Then again, I'll soon be entering those doors, and I have no intention to die anytime soon.

Michael doesn't come back out the main door, but Aimee is called and she is sucked into the gym also. Zant shifts uncomfortably next to me, and I sympathize with him for a second, with the chair digging into my back, too.

Aimee's time is short, and in what seems like seconds Zant is up and gone. He displays an aura of confidence and seems to walk with a bit of a swagger to the door. I scowl and turn away when he enters the gym. I wouldn't mind that guy getting a zero training score.

Muse and Aeterna discussed for hours what I was to do in the private session, but it now seems to melt away in my ever-growing panic. Throw the knives, then shoot? Or do the swords arena? No, I wasn't supposed to do swords. My palms tingle and a jolt of fear courses through me, forcing me to regain control. You've been in control for so long. Don't lose it now.

And from the silence comes the robotic tones of Pixal. "Ming Mako to the Training Center." I stand, and am pleased at my standing – not too fast, not too slow, not too jittery. I walk briskly to the door and it swings open. Not wanting to waste any time, I slip through and the door seals behind me.

I'm in the arena now. Trapped. Hunted. Watched. Every part of my body tingles now, and I take a calming breath. In, out. In, out. I must perform well for the Gamemakers. I have to survive. Survival – it seems so futile now, with all of the tributes pitted against each other, with the world pitted against the tributes, with the world pitted against the world. No one is going to survive. It would be better to go to the Games and stand in front of the Cornucopia, screaming, "Take me now!" Survival. And if I survive, then what? What happens to the tributes after the Games? Such broken people, broken survivors. Better to die than to snap and live.

"Ming Mako?" The voice is dreary and bland and slurred, a voice I don't know, but that radiates dislike. "I am Clouse, the Head Gamemaker for this year's games. Please, show us what you can do." I nod sharply and try to think of what I was supposed to do. Knives. Tracking. Swords – no, not swords! Suddenly my mind goes blank and I burst into action. To heck with planning and strategies! To heck with the Games. Do I dare say it, to heck with Borg! I sprint forward and grab a handful of knives and throw them at the spear dummies, not even seeing where they land. Next I run to the simulated forest, then slow down, remembering my training. Feet apart, balance centered, hands out, move carefully… The trees shift with automated wind and my body moves with the leaves, their rustling filling my ears. For a while I only see green, and then I break out of the foliage and hurry to the knife section again, hit a few targets, and stop short, panting, to examine my work.

The spear dummies would be dead and gone if they were alive, with stuffing poking out of the edges of the knife-holes put in them before the entire blade went through. I feel dizzy and steady myself quickly, trying to compute the staggering amount of force needed to tear through a spear dummy. The woods look clean and untouched, like no one ever ran through them. The archery targets aren't split down the middle, but all of the knives are well placed, buried into the thick wood. When I look up at the Gamemakers they are murmuring to one another, gesturing, and glancing at me quickly. Annoyed, I pick up a sword and lop the head off of one of the hanging spear dummies.

"Hey! Can I go?" My tone is bored and indifferent, like I could tear holes in spear dummies in my sleep and do private sessions all day long. Clouse looks up, his heavily penciled eyebrows raised – in surprise, I assume, although it's hard to consider the Borg workers to have human emotions.

"Yes, Miss Mako. You are dismissed." I drop my sword with a clatter to the floor, probably not a nice touch, and jog to the exit door, where a Nindroid stands, hands at sides, rigidly awaiting my arrival. He keys in an access code so fast his mechanical fingers are blurred, and an elevator door opens to take me back to my floor. In the lift is, per the norm, another Nindroid.

Before I enter the lift I glance back one more time at the Gamemakers and see them sitting properly, watching the door for the next tribute to enter. My hopes of making an impression vanish in an instant. Maybe the spear dummy thing… I think meekly, then step briskly into the elevator and the doors shut tight behind me.

Another wave of dizziness comes over me and I grip the metal railing tightly, feeling my sweat pool on the cold steel. The Nindroid doesn't even react when I slide to the lift's floor and put my head in my hands. All this – the Gamemakers, the Arena, the tributes – it's all a trap, a tantalizing lure to the edge of a cliff, the crown dangling from a string. Even if you somehow manage to win, there's still life after the Games. All of those victors, all of those broken champions, still managing to make do, still managing to live, despite their captive state. We're all captives. And if we escape, we're refugees.

Escape. If only it were that simple. Maybe if I was in the Complex I could try to figure out a way to flee, but here, in Borg Tower, the most heavily armed and protected place in all of Ninjago… Here I am a prisoner. Here I have no choices. My fate is determined.

I'm here for a reason, I know. But why would Borg try to eliminate me and his other young enemies so obviously? Surely some others in the Complex know. Maybe some of the tributes do, and that's why they're here. And then there are the people out of the Complex who know. Those who can save us. Those who will never come. The escaped and assumed dead runaways, the citizen to fled for a better life… They could come. They knew the dangers. Unless, of course, Borg killed them off, too. Just like he's going to do to me.

Muse finds me slumped in the lift, brooding, and pulls me to my feet quickly. "If you act like a loser you will lose. Now, chin up and act like a victor!" Ness brushes the dust off of my training pants with a fancy horsehair bristle bush, making sure to leave it spotless. "Scores will be posted at dinner. Surely the sulking wasn't proof that you did poorly."

Brittany practically begs me for details, and Ness and Markus look like they can barely contain their curiosity, so I let them drag me to the dinner table and spill about the training session. When I get to the part about cutting through the dummies Markus gives a low whistle.

"That's industrial grade training equipment. How hard did you throw?"

I toss a strawberry at him and continue with my tale. "And then I reached the artificial woods. I think I did well there, I couldn't see any tracks when I looked back later."

Even Muse looks surprised when I tell them about cutting the head off of the dummy. "It wasn't like they were keeping me or anything. All of a sudden – I felt claustrophobic and scared and angry. I just wanted to get out of there." Tears sparkle in my eyes and I hastily wipe them away, angry at myself now. "I don't like being caged." I bite my lip until the tears fade away. Muse comes to my shoulder and puts a hand on my arm.

"I know."

"On the bright side, it's only two more days!" Ness says cheerfully, and Markus and Brittany glare at him and he shrinks in his seat a little, floundering for a recovery. "I mean, only a few… You know… Um…" I shiver a little at the realization. Two more days until the Arena. Two more days until the Games. Two more days until, if I felt trapped here, I would be bound and thrown in a pit of Nindroids. Alone, desperate, afraid. I glance up at my stylist and prep team, and see mirrored looks of concern and admiration on their faces.

"You can do this, Ming. Tomorrow your interview will blow all of the others away. People will want to know you. You will be memorable. You can win this thing, I know it." Markus reaches out a hand and takes mine, and I'm surprised by its warmth. Coming from a Borg employee, I was expecting something cold and unfeeling. "We're rooting for you." You're not alone. I squeeze his hand encouragingly and push my chair away from the table.

"I'll be back for dinner – and the scores." I say, and walk to my room, shutting off my stylists and my confusion and the Hunger Games for a moment. A moment of solitude.

Lunch passes, and dinner looms on the horizon. Groaning, I pull myself away from the comforts of my bed when Muse calls me for the broadcast. "You won't want to miss this," she informs me as I crawl out of the bedcovers. "This is your competition." As if I wanted to be reminded.

I wonder if I can truly see the other tributes as competition. Lloyd and the Light boy, Kai and the Air tributes – they all seem so real. Tributes always seem like cardboard cutouts of people, like shells, not really human, like the Nindroids who guard my door. But now, as a part of the Games, I see how human everyone really is. Ness is real. Lloyd is real. People will see me during the interview and think I'm another shell. I need to strike them as a person. A real, flesh-and-blood human whom they can relate to. Muse is right – if I seem real the people will want to know what makes me different, want to know me. I have to be authentic.

But how can I be authentic when I have so many "real" things to hide?

Ness and Markus and Brittany's excitement from my previous meeting is mirrored now. They keep dropping their forks and fidgeting and attempt airy chatter. Usually prep teams don't eat with the tributes, but I'm glad for the company. Markus and Brittany practically lunge over the table to pass me the salt, making us all laugh. Ness even manages to slop an entire glass of water down his front and has to run and change.

Our laughter is interrupted by the loudspeakers by the television blasting the anthem of Ninjago, and Brittany squeals, digs her nails into my arm, and drags me to the couch to watch. I massage the nail-shaped indents as the seal of Borg Enterprises fades from the enormous screen and Pixal and Master Chen, head of Entertainment in Borg Tower, take its place. Chen looks as hideous as ever, an aging face preserved by disgustingly thick layers of makeup and fake smiles. He's been announcing and interviewing tributes for as long as I can remember. Sometimes my mother would joke about worrying about putting on makeup because of the example Chen set. Come to think of it, I can't recall her ever wearing makeup. And here I am, dolled up for the citizens and workers of Borg Tower.

Chen has always had a fascination with buttons, and he's tapping on one now, making a faint click-click sound before the talking starts. Pixal jumps in before he can begin his overexcited monologue, properly introducing us.

"Welcome to Cyrus Borg's Tribute Scores Broadcast!" I suddenly remember that the showing is mandatory and that all of Ninjago will be watching me and my scores. My stomach clenches and I swallow dryly. Sensing my anxiety, Brittany takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I squeeze back.

"I am Pixal, here to announce the scores of this year's tributes to you. And this is –"

"Master Chen! Thank you all for coming! So good to see your smiling faces again!" Chen bounces in his tall leather seat with excitement, a look that along with the makeup makes him seem like an overexcited schoolboy. Beaming, he waves to the cameras. Smiling faces – if anything, he's made us dislike him even more.

Pixal clears her throat, an obvious attempt at reigning Chen in. "Yes, thank you. Each tribute was given a test today, displaying their skills they will use in the upcoming Hunger Games, for a panel of Gamemakers. This year's Head Gamemaker is Mister Clouse." An image of Close appears in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, and the Head Gamemaker smiles dryly and waves, a short, choppy motion. "The Gamemakers reviewed the tributes and scored them on their performances. Today we announce these tributes' scores!" The excitement in her last sentence is so forced I almost wince.

"To begin with, Aimee of the Air element!" Aimee's face and some videos of her in the Training Center flash across the projector screen, a vain attempt in making her look like a competitor. Chen gives an excited wiggle in his seat.

"Aimee scored a five in training!" Pixal announces methodically, where Chen's face falls comically, like he expected more of the tribute girl. "Next we have Michael Bedford!" Chen jerkily straightens his lapel. All of his energy is making me nervous. Brittany's hand feels clammy in mine – from sweat or cold, I can't tell.

"Michael's score is also five!" Chen settles in his seat a little. That's right, get used to it, I think darkly. Settle into the act of killing children again. Yeah, get comfortable.

I'm next. The next tribute to be called, singled out, targeted, pick your choosing. Brittany's hand is trembling now, but I can't bring myself to squeeze it and comfort her again. Hired by Borg. And yet, so real.

"Now we have the Darkness element!" Pixal drones, and Chen smirks. "Ooh! The bad boys!" I snort and Muse wrinkles her nose.

"Be sure to remind me to make you look as un-bad-boy like as possible for the interview.

"Yes, please!" I say loudly, making my prep team laugh nervously – but at least it breaks the tension somewhat.

"Our first Darkness tribute is Ming Mako." When my images appear I look very un-bad-boy like already – shooting arrows, throwing knives, and even talking to Lloyd, who looks as scared as I recall, but not in a bad way altogether. I look important. Prominent. Noticeable.

"Ming's score is… An eight." Eight? Markus drops his champagne glass in shock. Brittany screams. Ness grabs my hand and pulls me around in an impromptu waltz. "That's my girl! Eight! Eight!" I whirl around in Ness' arms and Brittany screams again, jumping up from the couch. "Oh my gosh! You're sold!" Muse gives me a faint smile when I look at her, too, and I know she's pleased.

When Ness finally insists on letting me out of the dance floor, Scarlett's score is being shown, an eight, which makes me a bit nervous again. "Don't worry about them. All eyes will be on you." Markus insists, and I give him a wink. "This is a cause for celebration!" cries Ness, and he runs to the kitchen and orders a large chocolate cake in my honor.

While the cake comes, my prep team and I sit tersely, our revelries forgotten, watching the other tributes receive their scores. The Light boy get the highest score, a twelve, and all of the other Careers are not far behind. My eight stands out, however, many steps above the other elements who are generally neutral in the Games. Chen even comments on my score at the end of the listing, saying, "Who knows? Even the Darkness tributes are competitors! This will be an exciting year in Borg Tower!"

Brittany squeals and bounces in her seat. "Oh, Ming! This is outstanding!"

"You know what else is outstanding?" Ness shouts mischievously from the kitchen, and I leap from the couch to see the cake – no, not a cake, a mountain of chocolate with rivulets of purple lava streaming down the sides, making a volcano.

"Ness!" I gasp, totally blown away, as Markus, Muse, and Brittany stream in behind me. "This is too much! I'm going to go into the Games expecting indulgent meals!" In the excitement of the moment, my Games reference is overlooked, perhaps for my purposes.

Brittany wields an enormous kitchen knife to cut through the monstrosity, and Ness calls out, "And the Prep Team element's female tribute comes in for the kill!" I can't help but laugh as Brittany slices the cake, miming intense facial expressions and making pained noises. Muse even takes the knife for a moment to cut herself a piece, joining Brittany in the face-making. Markus leads a rousing chorus of the Ninjago anthem and I'm halfway through before I realize what I'm singing.

The anthem of the leader who's about to butcher me, along with sixteen other children, sparing one. The leader who will dispose of him enemies quickly and efficiently – even if they are innocent young men and women. Well, varying degrees on innocence, I think smugly. The anthem of a Machiavellian dictator. And I'm playing along to his tune.

To keep up appearances, I make small talk and laugh when everyone else does during the cake-eating. Only Muse picks up on my sudden withdrawal, giving me a raised eyebrow over a bit of cake and nothing more. I expect we'll talk later. Only Muse knows. I, again, am forced to trust the pawns of Borg Enterprises. But, as I watch Muse laugh politely at Ness' jokes, I wonder how much of pawns they really are.

**Me: We need to talk.**

**You: What about?**

**Me: Did you read chapter nineteen?**

**You: Well, yeah...**

**Me: Did you read the author's note?**

**You: Yes...**

**Me: Did you read the part where it asked for reviews?**

**You: Well, I, um...**

**Me: ****_Did I stutter?_**

**Kidding, but seriously (haha)... I really do want to know what you guys think! So please review or shoot me a message or something to let me know! **

**Thanks a million - Until next time! **


	21. Chapter 21

***says something about being on time***

***anecdote?***

***jokes, haha***

***"but you don't care, you want to read"***

***wonders if you do actually want to read***

***says 'read'***

Chapter Twenty-One - Lloyd

Finn shakes me awake, and none too gently. Groaning in protest, I squint up at him, eyes bleary with sleep. "Up, sluggard. Time to train." I roll over in the warm covers, clutching vainly at the linen and the sleep I took for granted.

"We don't have tr-raining today…" My speech is slurred and I bury my head in my pillow.

Finn whacks me with the pillow's pair and nudges me. "Training for the interview, dummy. Where's all the training I've given you personally gone?" I slowly sit up, wincing in protest.

"Interview? You mean, with Chen?" Finn glances around the bedroom, like he's expecting Chen to waltz in right now.

"Master Chen, yes. The whole of Ninjago and all of the citizens of the Tower will be watching, and, quite frankly, I don't want you winging it." I rub my eyes, slightly offended, but too tired to retaliate. "So get up! We have much to discuss over breakfast."

Breakfast is extremely overdone, with every available space crammed with fruit and breads and drinks and pastries, all steaming and savory and giving off incredible smells. Finn dismisses my prep team and they glance around the dining area woefully, and I can imagine them tasting the foods in their mind's eye. Ignoring this, Finn turns to me, all business.

"Chen will try to do a multitude of things to you, try to expose points of your character that the people assume of you. We need you to have a look or a quality or a character trait that the populous will associate with you." I take a bite of apple slowly, processing what he's said.

"O-kay. So, what's my look?" Finn smirks, and I feel my stomach plunge. "It's not that easy," he drawls, and I bury me face in my napkin.

"Nothing is…"

"You'll need to help me with that. Some of the impressions I've gotten from you, since I've mentored you, is that you're naïve -"

"Hey!"

"Inexperienced -"

"What?"

"And quite frankly, unprepared for the Games in all aspects. Prove me wrong." I drop my napkin on the floor.

"How am I supposed to do that? Am I that hopeless?"

Finn shrugs. "Eh…" I toss a bagel bite at him.

"Real encouraging."

"The look I think you should go for… Could be many things. You could be young and humble, like 'Wow, everything here is amazing!' always putting the attention away from yourself. Or you could go for lovable, acting nice and kiss-up-y. Maybe you could act shy, but they're forgettable." Finn sits a moment, thinking, brow creased.

"Or…" I venture, "I could just answer his questions. No pretenses." Finn looks up from his plate.

"I guess…" he murmurs, then his head whips up. "Lloyd! You're a genius!" I drop my head, feigning bashfulness.

"Please, Finn, you make me blush."

Finn waves away my comment. "No, really. When you go up there and act totally honest, answering from the heart, they'll see you stand out. Everyone else will have a look. That's how it's gone for years!"

I smile. "Just call me the loose cannon." Finn rolls his eyes.

"Don't get too cocky. Many a better tribute has fallen due to overconfidence."

That sobers up our conversation for the rest of breakfast.

Since the day is mainly for preparing for the interview, and I have nothing really to do but maybe practice being honest, which is kind of an oxymoron. I take a walk around the tribute areas of Borg Tower. All of the tributes avoid each other like their opponents are doused in poison, and I'm no exception. Daphnes and the other Careers are working out in the gym, lifting huge weights and making me feel very incompetent in comparison. The scores of the Careers flash before my eyes and I turn away, stomach writhing with nerves.

The movie theater is occupied by the Fire girl, and, on the total opposite side, the Lightning boy, who's fiddling with the seat cup holder, like he has a nervous tic in his hands and can't keep still. The swimming pool is appropriated by the Water tributes, of course, and the indoor track is being run by the Lightning girl. Why she's running a day before the Games, I don't know. One wouldn't want to wear themselves out. In the very corner of the track room is a lone basketball hoop, where the Fire boy shoots baskets. Although the gym has more sports fields, I can see why he came here. I'd be intimidated by the Careers, though, if I had to play basketball only yards from my soon-to-be mortal enemies.

Without anything left to do, I simply wander. It's a good way to pass the time though, peering into empty rooms and just getting lost in the complex corridors and floors. Along every wall, though, spoiling the adventure somewhat, are Nindroids, red eyes glaring, standing at fierce attention. I wonder if they think I'm up to something.

But, inevitably, my wanderlust fades and I get bored. I find a solitary corner on a lower floor and sit to think. This is, quite possibly, my last day alive. What should I do with it?

I could write to my family – tell them I love them, say good-bye to Skye… Tears blur my vision and I gulp thickly. I can't do it. I can't say goodbye. My mother and father swim before my eyes, smiling, and Skye sits beside them, grinning. They can't leave me, and I them. No, writing letters is out of the question.

So, what should I do? I think back on my life, the brevity of my existence. It's been a good life, I suppose. A sheltered one. So much so that I can barely believe that tomorrow morning I'll be shipped off to the Arena. Such violence and death has never been a part of my existence. I saw the Hunger Games. Only now am I believing them.

Finn would tell me to suck it up and not to act weak. But what chance do I really have in the Games? Even he admitted it. What would happen if I went and… I blink hard, making tears mingle with my eyelashes. Cameras. Can't cry. How will I die, though? When? More tears. Cameras. Can't cry. I look up, trying hard to make out walls and doors amidst the gauzy haze of tears. I can survive. I can win. If I can be honest, I can win.

Somehow I make it back to my room, and there I where I let go – let go of the knot of emotions coiling in my insides, let go of all of the tears and fears I've kept since the Reaping, let go of all of the pain and the loss I've faced so far. At some point Finn cracks open the door to see what I'm doing, but to his credit, he closes it quietly and lets me resume my quiet weeping. And on and on, past the dinner hours and finally my stylist walks in, looking agitated.

"Smarten yourself up, boy, we have work to do before the interview." I rub my eyes tiredly and take a breath. What would happen if I broke down during the interview and just sobbed while Chen sat there, trying to console me? Yup, an A plus way to get sponsors.

Finn follow my stylist, overlooks my red eyes and damp cheeks, and hands me a bundle of clothes. "For the interview," he says, speaking tritely, as if not to disturb me any further. His eyes are still cold, but a certain warmth seems to be burning in the center, trying to win over. I take the clothes and open my mouth to speak, but Finn interrupts me. "It's good you did it now. Better?"

I nod shakily. "Yeah." My voice sounds sort of croaky after my crying fit. Now a blush creeps into my cheeks, a flush of embarrassment, for turning into a sniveling child for so long. Finn judges my looks.

"We all do it. Cry before the Games. I'll bet each and every tribute has, even if it's on the inside. Get it all out now." He pauses, fiddling with one of my throw pillows. "Ready for your interview?" I stand a bit unsteadily, then walk towards the closet where I'll change.

"As ready as I'll ever be."

I wonder if Finn had to interfere with this outfit, too, because it lacks incredibly in sparkles and sequins and satins. I'm dressed in a slim-fitting suit of coal grey, with an expensive-looking green tie tied as tightly as a noose around my neck. I pull at it in an attempt to loosen its grip.

My shoes are solid black leather, which surprises me, because leather is very, very rare. Only the best traders can get their hands on the uncured kind, selling it for exorbitant prices. They shine in the light and I have to resist the urge to touch them, which would probably smear whatever varnish or glaze they've applied.

The suit fits snugly and I feel warm in the heavy fabric, adding to the feeling of enclosure the outfit gives, but when I walk out of the closet both Finn and my stylist nod their approval. My stylist is holding the trimming scissors tightly, like she has to resist the urge to give me the bowl cut she so desires. Finn winks at me and I pull at my sleeves, which are beginning to chafe my wrists. Nice look, uncomfortable feel.

Finn leads me to the living room and sits me down, which is hard to do in my stiff slacks, and leads me through a couple interview questions, and I answer as honestly as I can.

"Are you nervous about the upcoming Games?"

"How can I not? I bet everyone is." I add a smile, and Finn smiles too. A nice touch – a shy smile. A little inviting, but not too revealing. Honest.

"How do you think you'll do?"

I laugh a little at this one, looking up from my tightly clenched hands to face Finn, making sure his eyes are on me. "How will I do? As well as I can!" Shifting in my seat, I angle myself to face the invisible crowd, and smile again. When my eyes flick back to Finn he gives me an encouraging thumbs-up, then continues.

"Do you have family back at home, Lloyd?" he asks, and I feel myself choke up a bit. Family. Skye. Saying goodbye. But when I speak, my tone is remarkably controlled.

"My mom and dad, of course. They're amazing parents. I would say they're the best, but I'm biased." Pause for laughter. "Then I have a sister. Her name is Skye and she's just about an angel. Sweetest person you'd ever meet." I hope Finn is finished with my family, but he continues to pry on.

"What does Skye do with you?" The question is easy, and I feel a little more relaxed.

"She always makes me play school and seems to find solace in putting me in detention!" I chuckle at the memory. Finn laughs, too.

"I thought you said she was an angel!" I shake my head and smile, thinking of the times I would be subject to the pains of detention by Skye.

Our conversation moves on, and it's easy. Bantering, anecdotes, memorable phrases – all of these fill our lively talk. Finn gradually relaxes, too, seeing how well I'm doing. "Honesty is a good trait. We want the people to see that in you. And right now?" He pauses dramatically and I roll my hands in a get-on-with-it gesture. "I'm getting that feeling."

"Yes!" I pump my fist into the air and Finn stands, smoothing his shirt.

"It's about time to go to the interview. Ready to go?"

The elevator we ride in is already occupied, but we squeeze our way in between a prep team and Sawyer, who stands firm, not moving to give any space. In the tight enclosure of the elevator the Metal boy looks enormous, like a small giant. I remind myself that he's five years older than me, but that's no comfort. Everyone here is older than me – I'm the underdog. Sawyer gives me a quick glance and lets out a small puff of air and his lips twitch up into a smile. The thought is readable in his expression._ Pathetic_. And in that instant, I want to prove him wrong.

The doors of the lift ding open to reveal a frenzied scene before us. On a sort of dais near the stage steps are chairs for the tributes, small metal ones that don't look the least bit comfortable. A few tributes sit in their designated seats already, prep team member and stylists swarming around them like bees. Even more stylists run around the space in front of the platform, stuffed with overflowing tables covered in mountains of concealer containers, precariously balanced stacks of paints and brushes, and drooping piles of sheer material that glitters in the light. A girl tribute, maybe the Fire one, is trying on different shawls at one table, while her stylists squabble about colors and compliments and which ones make her look more appealing.

Sawyer shoves me forward as he exits, and I step on his foot as I walk out too. Finn casts me a glance, _don't cause trouble_, and I nod, then quickly look away. My stylist dashes to the table of plumes and feathers, running her clawlike nails through them, feeling the texture. I wonder, not for the first time, what her deal with feathers is.

Finn leads me through a clump of gossiping prep team members and past a few of the Careers, who give me the same look Sawyer did. _Just you wait. You'll remember me tonight. _I hold my head high as I weave my way through the maze of fabric bolts and racks of thread bobbins that tower over me, all the while following Finn, who shows me to the dais.

"Makeup and all of –" He moves his hand in an encompassing circle around the waiting room, "This-wise, you're fine. Just hang tight until your interview." Finn turns and acknowledges a beckoning wave from my stylist, and he's gone. No wish for good luck, no we'll-be-there-for-you assurance, just gone. Maybe he doesn't wish me luck because I don't need any. Or maybe he doesn't believe in me anymore. A lost cause.

To distract myself, I look around the room I'm in. All the walls are concrete, much like the waiting area before the dragon display, but the room is much smaller, maybe the size of the basketball courts combined at school. The entire floor is stuffed with people and tables. Except for the platform, the area is stuffed to the brim. Adding this to the uncomfortably low ceiling, I begin to feel like I'm being swallowed by the extravagance and the stylists and the products, like I'd just sink into the chair and disappear.

Can't think that way. I've got to stay on top of things. Interview. Honesty. All-Element. You can do this.

The rest of the tributes and their prep teams and stylists and mentors join the throng, effectively filling the small waiting room. Eventually every tribute is sitting in their chairs. Some talk. Most are silent. Next to me, the Water boy jiggles his leg up and down, up and down, tapping out a nervous beat on the floor. Up, down, up, down. The rhythm calms me slightly, and I find myself drumming my fingers on my knee to the same time as he does. Soon, though, I catch myself and still my fingers. Got to stay on top of things.

Almost as soon as I stop tapping the door to the stage, near the edge of the dais, slides open and fog billows in, presumably for effect. Master Chen has a flair for the dramatic, no doubt. His loud, resonating voice fills the waiting room, shaking my metal chair against the platform's wooden beams.

"Welcome, all, to the tribute interviews! I am your host, the dashing, daring, and marvelously handsome Master Chen!" The crowd screams and roars, clapping and rattling noise machines and cheering at the top of their lungs. My fist clenches on my knee.

"Yes, yes, thank you! It is my _honor_ -" He stresses the word rather obviously, as if desperately trying to convey his point, "To introduce to you the Air tribute first to join us on stage, the lovely Aimee Holmes!" Aimee stand up from her chair, hands clenched together so tightly I'm surprised she hasn't broken a bone already, and steps to the door. She's dressed in a light, sheer layered white dress, which I guess is supposed to represent Air, but combined with her chalk-white face and pale features, it makes her look more like a ghost than a person.

I wonder how I will look on stage – scared? Confident? Ready? I doubt anyone truly is. This is a matter of life and death – how I appear to the public. Will they accept me? Will they empathize? Moreover, will they let me survive?

**I like this chapter ****_okay, _****but the next one is loads better. Gives you something to look forward to, eh?**

***that's all for now folks deal***

***exits***


	22. Chapter 22

**We return again to chapter twenty-two (hyphens... meh.)**

**But you already knew that, didn't you? Right.**

**SoooOoooOOooo... Read on!**

Chapter_Twenty Two – Kai_

I got rid of the sport coat first – ugly and horribly formal. It was easy to discreetly drop it onto one of the fabric-laden tables and hope no one would notice.

The tie would have gone next, too, but Kent would have a conniption fit if I went out without looking halfway-presentable, so instead I loosened it, making it look casually-formal. I muss up my hair, too, which my stylist tried hopelessly to slick down, making the whole thing an over-greased rat's nest. When I see myself in one of the many full-length mirrors I'm pleased at the result, then roll up my sleeves. I still look like a tribute, but an older, cooler one. Relaxed, easy, and in control. Confident.

Deadly.

Stirling sits down next to me lightly, fanning her skirt out in front of her. The entire dress is made up of scraps of tulle interwoven to make a pattern of flames that dance upwards towards her head. Her makeup is heavy and thick, making her look only vaguely like the tribute girl I remember. A whole new look this far into the Games isn't the best strategy, but it's her decision. Turning my attention back to her dress, I analyze the pattern, which is fairly complicated, and momentarily give her stylists a thought of praise. But my laud of dress patterns is interrupted when Stirling stands sharply, wipes her hands on her gown, and almost jogs to the door when Chen summons her.

Three minutes. Each interview is the same amount of time. I look around at the other tributes, who are glaring at their competitors who have nicer dresses or more expensive watches, or still looking at the warehouse, eyes falling on shimmering swaths of fabric. With nothing else to do, I pin tribute scores to their counterparts, trying to guess the victor. The odds are not in my favor.

"Thank you, Stirling!" Chen's voice has the slightest undertone of strain, maybe from lying so much in such a short amount of time. I try to read his timbre and assume that Stirling was a bit withdrawn, not as appealing as she let on. All the better for me, I think. _All the better to eat you with, my dear_, Borg is thinking, too.

"And now, for the male tribute of Fire…" Chen's voice swells, as do the cheers of the crowd, "Kai Burns!" I'm on my feet swiftly – no shaking hands, no sweaty palms, no fidgeting, and I walk to the doorway. The fog is thick and for a moment I'm blinded, then an abundance of light assails me as I stride onto the stage, illuminated by flashbulbs and spotlights and camera lights.

The stage itself is long, and Chen sits in the middle, reclining comfortably in a snow-white, well-padded chair that accents his vibrantly colored signature outfit. A similar chair sits across from him at a respectful distance – not close enough to represent friendship, but not far away enough to seem distant and unfeeling. Even the positions of the chairs are lies. The Tower is smothered in deceit, choking its residents. How can they not feel it?

All eyes are on me as I move out of the shifting fog onto the stage, and I'm instantly in character. As I walk I turn to the crowd and wave, smiling, not in an entirely open way, but more of a sly, mysterious look. The people amassed in the stands are ridiculously many, all screaming and cheering and waving cell phones and glowsticks, all bedecked in glitter and glamor and skin-tight, shiny bodysuits. They look vulgar and crude, not because of their fashion, of which I couldn't care less, but of their motives. Just as quickly they could be cheering for my blood. Wouldn't Borg be so obliged to give them their wish?

When I sit in my chair with Chen shouting, "Thank you, thank you!" and trying to calm the raucous audience, I lean back, mimicking Chen, looking coolly relaxed in an alien area. Chen faces me, smiling rigidly. I make note of the sweat beaded on his brow, not from heat or fatigue, but of worry. Of course, he's the one who will have to face Borg after the interviews. One word awry… Chen has been doing this for years, though. Surely he knows Borg's taste.

"So, Kai Burns! A pleasure, truly."

I smile easily and wave a hand. "Please, Master Chen. The pleasure is all mine." A good start. So far I'm respectful, which might throw Borg off my trail for a little while. Or maybe not.

"Why, thank you very much. So, Kai…" Chen scoots forward in his seat, leaning in towards me, a small gesture of intimacy, and I tilt my head in, acknowledging his motion. We're moving more like a delicate dance, weaving in and out, copying each other's motions. I'm content to go on. We'll see how long this lasts.

Chen begins to speak again, and his smile is rough, like we're sharing dirty secrets, the look I've seen on many a trader's face before. "Who do you think is your biggest competition?" I scoot back in my seat and sigh, like I'm about to recite a long-winded tale.

"In Fire we have a rite of passage, you see." I begin. "Yes?" Chen moves closer. "Each boy has to, at the humble age of thirteen, tame a wild lion with their bare hands." Laughter. Even Chen chuckles. "Many good young lads have lost their lives in the path of becoming a true Fire." Leaning back, Chen examines me again. His eyes are sharp, but I can tell he doesn't have the experience or wisdom to read my expressions and statements. So far, I'm holding the siege at bay.

"And you survived?" He taunts playfully.

"I still have the scars." The crowd laughs again, louder this time, and a few clap. "I had heard this lion I tamed was entered in the competition. Maybe after this interview you can point me in the right direction." I half stand, miming looking at the other side of the stage. The audience guffaws, applauding and cheering all the more.

Chen claps a little too, laughing lightly as he relaxes in his seat. I, too, get comfortable. "I think I've seen him around." Instead of replying, I simply smile, letting the joke die down, and the audience settle back in. Chen's eyes find mine again, and his look is more of an equal now, more open. I need to open up, too.

"So, as you can see, I'm not too worried about any of my human competition."

"I see, I see! But tell me, what's your family like, Kai?" Risky question. If people find out that Nya and I are on our own we'll be imprisoned. At least, she will. I'll just me killed all the more quickly. "I have one sibling, a sister, Nya. She's the same age as me and you'll never meet anyone nicer."

"Oh?" Chen raises an eyebrow – feigning suspicion or honestly doubtful, I don't know.

"Well, except in the morning." On an impulse, I stand and take Chen's tie and shove it up at him. "Get your tie straight, scruffy, you look like a Darkness with a bad hair day!" Releasing Chen's tie, I seat myself again and watch him straighten his lapels, meticulously rearranging his outerwear. The crowd, meanwhile, is going nuts, shouting and wildly jumping into the air. I turn to them and shrug, pointing at Chen, arranging my features in a puzzled expression, and they leap to their feet and scream and scream, trying to catch my eye, to get my attention. One person throws a rose on the stage and in one deft movement I sweep it up. When I turn back to Chen I hold it out towards him.

"For you," I say, and wink.

"You're too kind." He sets the rose across his lap, parallel to the floor. "I'd hate to see your sister today!" Chen quips, and I match his tone.

"Like I said, I have the scars."

"What about your other family members?" The crowd instantly hushes, sensing a serious moment coming up.

"My dad was a great man. You all have your ideas of what the ideal person is, charming or beautiful or powerful, whatever, but my dad was the ideal man to me. He had integrity. Courage. He had morals, standards to live by. Nothing shook him. Every time I hugged him as a kid I felt how – solid he was. Like he'd never go."

But he did, I think bitterly. The words, so private, are sour on my tongue. Let them know, Chen whispers. But I have to stand firm.

"Then one day he went to work, just usual. And then the soldiers came back and said there had been an accident in the workplace. A machine malfunctioned and one of the parts was severed and was swinging towards an elderly man. Apparently my father just jumped out of his spot and saved the other man." I pause, letting my words sink in. "That was my dad." A small, quiet laugh escapes me. "Always putting others first."

Surely Borg knows the truth. How he killed my father in the way of cowards. How they forced the man's son to watch. Do I want vengeance? Will killing Borg solve my problems? I need something, or someone, who has the power to change things for the better. But for now, that may as well be Kent and his team of Borg-fanatics. No one has risen to the challenge yet.

Chen gives a small noise of sympathy, and the audience is dead silent. "I see." His voice is near a whisper. Even if the lie I spoke was the truth, Borg would still have had a part in killing my father. He knows all too well…

True to his nature, Chen lightens the conversation. "I take it he survived the right of passage too?"

"I didn't tell you?" I drawl. "We kept his lion as a pet. It lived in our apartment for a while there." Again, laughter. Let them laugh. Let them feel happy for themselves, feel sympathy for the tribute boy who they'll vote for to die. Let them go home and hug their fathers and mothers and tell them how much they love each other. Let them the next day forget about their conversation and go back to their safe little Borg-filled worlds. I must smile, because Chen matches my expression, but I'm smiling at something much more humorous.

The three minutes are ticking down, and Chen launches onto a new tack.

"So, Kai. A ten as a training score! Magnificent job!" I can almost taste the lies radiating off of him, thick and tightly interwoven. "What weapon did you use? Any plans for the Games? Strategies?" _Like I would tell you anything_, I think bitterly.

I tap my microphone as if testing its sound quality. "Just need to make sure everyone backstage can hear me." If all of the tributes are screwed, as am I. Might as well make a joke out of it.

"Weapons, strategies, tributes, Games, _war_… It's like we're soldiers." Chen makes a snappy salute and I salute him back. Make it all an act, Chen. I can see through your veil of lies. You've spent a long time weaving it, but I can see. "And we're fighting in our war. Our own private one." _Heil _Borg, eh? Nodding frantically, making me worry that his head will fall clean off of his shoulders, Chen agrees. Fighting our classmates. Our contemporaries. Our friends.

"In war you have winning and losing parties. In everything you have a winner and a loser." Take a breath, collect your thoughts. "I'm not saying I'm going to be the winner. But one thing's for sure, I won't be in the loser's gang." Cryptic. Memorable. A good ending.

Chen opens his mouth to reply just as the buzzer sounds, jarring the crowd and the interviewer. Regaining his poise almost instantaneously, he extends a hand and I shake it, noting the cold, clammy feel of it – like a robot. Like everyone else in this godforsaken tower.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Kai Burns!" The audience goes wild, all on their feet, screaming and waving their arms and programs and throwing flowers left and right. I give the crowd a wave and a wink and step off the light-drenched stage, down the stairs, and to the reception room, a small space that's empty save for a Nindroid, who takes me by the arm and shoves me into an elevator.

During the silent ride – as always, the Nindroid offers no conversation – I have time to mull over my extemporaneous speech. Improvising is a skill every trader has to possess, and I feel that I did fine. It was heartfelt, classy, and memorable, for sure. If people weren't curious before, they are now. They won't forget the Fire boy.

"Strong but silent, huh, Hephaestus?" I direct my words to the Nindroid, recalling the name of a deity from ancient times. The trade came with a whole list of them, but Hephaestus had something to do with metal. The Nindroid offers no comment or action that shows he even comprehended my talking to him. Sighing, I wait in silence for the rest of the ride up.

Kent waves a glowstick in my face as I exit, cheering. "Brilliant! That was brilliant! Back and forth, like tennis, oh, that heartwarming moment near the end, too – and the lion! And the tie! And the rose! I've been getting so much tribute money I've lost count!" Tribute money – money spent to send the poor victims in the Arena a bit of bread or water or matches.

_Tribute money_. Despicable.

My stylist shoots me a glare and I wonder if it's because I trashed half of her outfit she carefully made for me. With all due respect, I think the tweaked outfit was better for my purposes. A bit sheepishly, I undo my tie and lay it on the table like an offering. She snatches it up with her long, neon nails and storms away, nose in the air. Kent can't keep from laughing at her retreating figure and I wonder if he is trying to make things worse.

"I'll expect you want to see the other interviews?"

I shrug, crashing on the couch and looking at the blank TV-wall. "Sure. Why not?" Kent takes the fancy remote and presses a pattern of buttons on its surface and the wall lights up, beginning with Aimee's interview.

Only a few stick out to me. Ming's interview is mysterious, leaving the audience curious and alert at its end. Daphnes doesn't talk during the entire thing – literally makes no sounds except for small noises of disagreement, which makes for a very interesting interview. Chen tries to pry out of him how he got a twelve, but no response.

The All-Element boy is honest – really, down-to-earth honest, which makes me feel a certain respect for him. He admits his fears and hopes and skills, but interjects with relatable comments and a full, all-inclusive feeling encompasses his interview. I have to admire his nerve, to stand out from the liars and the scoundrels, and it works. The other interviews seems crudely fake and forced compared to the pure honesty of his. Again, the All-Element tributes surprise.

As soon as the last interview ends Kent clicks off the television and offers some things to do before the feast tonight. The last night before the Games. Again, like the Reaping, I'm not scared, or anxious, or worried in general. Acceptance. _I'm in the Games, make the most of your sorry life while you can_, comes the cynical thought. My life hasn't been sorry. Everyone's faced hardships and felt loss and despair. _Not like you have_. True, but my life hasn't been sorry. I've rebelled, I've acted out, I've lived a life, which is more than any other Complex resident has. Maybe because of this I can be satisfied with the life I've lived, and others can't.

Kent finishes a sentence and I look up at him blankly, having ignored whatever monologue he's been giving while I've been thinking. My mentor ready my expression and smiles, a kind, paternal smile, a look that seems oddly superior in context. "Want to clean up before dinner?" I shake my head, looking down at my perfectly clean, if slightly rumpled, clothes. "This is fine." I reply. Kent nods, then turns away, probably off to change himself, leaving me in peace.

Feasts and dragon rides, parades and charades, interviews and Careers. When will it all end? I can question and debate all I want, but I – and every other tribute – know the answer.

It all ends tomorrow.

**Next week will have two chapters because they're both relatively short - celebrate!**

**Even though I know you won't do it - ****_hem hem - _****review, shoot me a message, et cetera. I'd love to hear what you think!**

**(Anyone appreciate my mad Umbridge impersonation right there? I thought so ;)**

**And thus, farewell! **


	23. Chapter 23

**Call me incorrigible... I've tried to update every Thursday, but one day late isn't so bad. **

**And we have two short chapters this week, so enjoy!**

_Chapter Twenty Three – Lloyd_

The feast that is dinner is stuffed to the brim with succulent morsels of food – papery-crusted raspberry tarts, stews of beef and pork and even dog, which I opt not to try, breads in slices thick and thin, marbled with cheese and spices, and even a whole roast pig with a delectable glaze lining its body like skin, with delicate curls of steam wafting off of it. My stylist and prep team attack the food like wild birds, snatching with talons and claws for the most luscious fruit, the most tender bit of roast, or the cupcake with the most icing. The entertainment brought for the meal is almost tame in comparison – who would want to watch a Nindroid juggle when you can see your prep team members fighting tooth and nail for the last bundt cake?

Although the food is wild and extravagant, it tastes all like chewed up paper to me. Every bite is the same, bland and insignificant. Maybe it's the worry that's gnawing at my stomach, or the thought of the Games being tomorrow – I can't tell. I'm sure everyone is in this kind of daze, an unbelieving trance, that the Games _can't_ be tomorrow, surely not, and try to pass the time with other things like watching Nindroids juggle and eating. Whatever I eat now will be all I have in my stomach for the Games, so I swallow the cardboard-like food on my plate, smiling at my mention in conversation, quiet and still.

Finn knows my angst, and every so often he catches my eyes and smiles, which I weakly copy and go back to my meal. As helpful as my mentor has been, I don't want a pep talk or a feel-good conversation. I want most of all to be left alone. If I'm going to die tomorrow, surely there must be something I can do to pass the time until then.

Passing the time until death – like I can't wait, when I could wait all the time in the world. I want to see Skye again, I want to talk to my father, to hear the strength in his words, to hear him tell me that everything would be okay in the end. "I will see you again," I whisper to my family's memory, and the prep team member next to me looks at me sidelong and then turns back to the food. What a distraction. Today I feast. Tomorrow I starve.

After eons of eating and drinking, it seems, when the first prep team member falls sound asleep on their plate with wineglass in hand, Finn loudly offers a toast to Borg and the Hunger Games and excuses us. As I walk out the door he grips my sleeve and pulls me back into the dining room, where the Nindroids are already cleaning up the messy table. His face is set and his eyes are steely, making me flinch a little bit, and the hand that hold my sleeve is clenched tightly.

"We should discuss strategy," He says lightly, a statement far contrary to the severity of his expression, but any strategy is better than no strategy right now and I nod.

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." Finn half-drags me to the couches and I sit, feet tapping the floor nervously. My mentor sits on the opposite sofa and balances his elbows on his knees, eyes boring into me. Whatever he has to say, or at least is on his mind, is no laughing matter.

"Don't step off the platform before time. Everyone knows that. You'll be blown to bits. Not a great way to go out." My feet keep tapping, keeping up a frantic beat. Platform. Explosives. Games. For a moment I feel sick and wonder if I will throw up, but the feeling passes and I gulp, looking up at Finn again.

"Next, obviously, is the Cornucopia. You've seen it, you know the traps they lay. You want a staff, whatever? Make one. All of their weapons are there to lure you to your death. If you have a backpack near you – fine, I'll accept a backpack. Those are gold mines. But anything else, even a handy-looking rock you see, run from it. The bloodbath is the most dangerous part of the Games, besides, you know, the Games themselves are pretty dangerous as a whole." Despite my worry, I feel my lips twitch up in the ghost of a smile.

"Water can save and kill nations. True fact. And it will kill many a tribute in these Games, too. When you run from the Cornucopia, give it all you've got. Run all day if you have to, but don't exhaust yourself, because you could just sit down and not get back up again. If you ever come across water, don't stop there, run upstream, in the river or whatever you have. If it's a lake, swim across. Throws the trackers off your trail and you'll still have water if you need it. Clean the water first before you drink it, boiling is quickest and easiest way to do so. Just make sure the smoke isn't visible. Green wood is worst for fires, steer clear of it." I try to comprehend all of the information, storing it for later.

"And what if I don't find water?" I ask, worry turning my stomach.

"Go to lower areas, water naturally flows down." Is the response, and I file that away, too.

"The other strategies after first day are simple. Don't leave too many tracks. Find food – hopefully you've done stations on that in training," Which I have, so I breathe a sigh of relief, "And don't die. Above all, don't die. Steer clear of alliances. Watch out for other tributes, too, because they know all of this and if they see a competitor wandering around in the Arena they'll take a shot at you, who wouldn't?"

I laugh out loud this time. "Are you saying there are people out there who would want to shoot me?" Feigning innocence, I gasp.

Finn only shrugs. "Just between you and me, I can think of one person in particular." That silences the laughter in my voice and we both settle down again into order. Into respect.

"I can persuade people that you're worth some money saving and can send you stuff. Small things, like matches or some oats, maybe. But if you're in a fix, don't think I can send you all you wish for. Tribute gifts are extraordinarily expensive, even for a single candle, so you're not some pampered pet in the Arena. And I won't send you anything until you're on the verge of death and maybe not even then, you hear me?" He doesn't want me to come crying to him when I'm hungry or anything, I get it.

"Yes. Loud and clear."

Finn suddenly sighs, head in hands. "I hate doing this to kids. To you. Telling them the same old things over and over again, watching them die, knowing maybe I could have helped them." The words hit hard and I shiver suddenly. Will Finn think the same things over seeing my corpse on live television?

"But you, Lloyd. You shouldn't be here. I knew it first day. Something… Never mind. Go to bed now. You probably won't sleep, but even so, rest is good. See you in the morning." See you in the morning. So nonchalant, so easy, like my life wasn't in the balance. Yet something about Finn's voice makes me see that he doesn't mean the phrase as flippantly as he says it. I shouldn't be here. No one should. Is that what he means?

I tumble onto my bed again, this time holding the All-Element pillow tightly, wishing desperately I was home. I would be lying on my bed, listening to Skye's calm breaths and my parents' low voices. We'd get up and watch the start of the Games – Skye excluded, because she is still too young – and then I'd go to school. I'd carelessly talk about tributes and odds with the twins and Brad and the rest of All-Element, doing my work normally, unaware of the dying teenagers who-knows-how far away, wishing that they could be where I would be, unaware of the suffering, the pain.

Skye will learn. She knows about the Games, and what happens, but to her, until she has seen the Games, death is not a reality, nor fear, nor loss. I knew fear for a short time in comparison, just one Reaping in which I was chosen, and I still feel fear now. Will it ever leave me?

I stay up late in the night, thinking, pondering. At one point Finn cracks the door open to see if I'm asleep and I lie still, evening my ragged and panicked breathing, and he closes the door again, probably seeing through my charade. I lie awake until the first rays of sun cut through the curtains and the day has begun. The Hunger Games is today. Today I live or die. Today my fate is written. I am in the Hunger Games.

I don't realize the truth of it until now.

**Aaaaaand... next chapter!**


	24. Chapter 24

**Welcome back for part two, act two, et cetera. **

**This is always the part where it's hard to figure out what to say... How about I compliment on your excellent choice of fanfiction? *wink wink***

**But we waste time. Read on! (Is this my catchphrase now? I hope not...)**

_Chapter Twenty Four – Wu_

The rebel base takes some getting used to, after the strict social and physical boundaries of the Complex, after the order and strict obedience I'm used to. Everything here is chaotic and strange, yet woven together by a curious unity and method.

Louis and Quill readily take up the job as our 'tour guides,' so to speak, and guide us around the base, explaining the rebels' designs for their stronghold.

"The main area is a giant rectangle, with maybe forty or so floors, above and underground, with your occasional tunnel here and there to go to different storerooms and other things." Louis begins as we walk to the main doors, large concrete and reinforced glass slabs that slide open soundlessly as we approach. Inside is what looks like a standard Atrium to my eyes, but many times larger, and filled with soldiers and leaders all dressed in the same uniform, patches stamped on their sleeves, joking and laughing and conversing.

Garmadon's eyes roam over the crowd and he frowns. "How do you keep order here? Where are their commanders?" The obvious display of lax command troubles me, too.

"The squad leaders have schedules, too. When they want their soldiers, the soldiers come." Quill explains, shrugging.

"And if they don't come?" Testing the boundaries of the rebels. Garmadon wants to make sure these guys are the real deal. Then again, if these rebels aren't, no one is.

"We take their clothes and they skin for a day." Louis and Quill laugh, but Garmadon's frown only deepens. "Seriously, though. They can be punished. You can get your patches removed if you're bad. Back to being a double, eh, Louis?" Ahead of me, Louis shrugs. "They won't lower us. Not enough good pilots. But hey, Thrace is always watching, ya know?" He says the last sentence sarcastically, and Louis chuckles.

"Singles gossip. They'll believe anything."

We push our way through the throng of soldiers, and I get a good look at some of the other patches for guilds and squads. Quill and Louis explain some, too, like the guild banners dangling from the concrete walls.

"See that? The extended hand? Service guild. One of the biggest, because anyone who can't lead or shoot or write can do labor. Lotsa squads in there too – cooking, cleaning, the doctors are in there too, but there's so many different squads for hospital stuff they're rearing for a squad all of its own. You get a papercut, find a Service man. You get your head blown off, find a Service man.

"That there is Army squad, the crossed guns. Yours truly. Again, lots of squads. You'll see in squad patches there'll be letters too, like A and B and C – sorry, working all day with Singles rubs off on you – and that means there are more than one of that squad. Infantry has a lot, what, maybe up to H, Louis? It's sewn into the patch. Louis is pilot squad A and I'm B. B for better, ya Borg-lover, stop smirking like that, we all know I'm better than you. Anyways, sorry, where was I? Oh."

We pause for a second as a tall man walks past us, chest thrown out, a patch with a golden 'C' shining on his sleeve. He glances left and right in a very important-looking way, like we're underlings.

"That's the Tactical head guy, I forget his name. He may look like an over-glorified single, but he's good. Really good, I've heard. Getting into Command is like storming Borg Tower with a jammed pistol and two legions of Nindroids are waiting at the front door."

"Make it three!" Louis adds as the Command man passes, stepping forward.

"One, just in case any Singles are eavesdropping." Quill rolls his eyes at me and we continue on our way to the far wall.

"That right there? That banner? Construction and all that stuff, what's it called – oh yeah, Mechanic's guild. Don't let the name fool you. They can make anything from thin air, it seems. The squads are your basic things, carpenters and engineers and, oh, shocker – mechanics!"

"Tactical is there. They're our strategists, overseers, and spies." He pauses, and I wonder if he's telling the truth. "Only joking, even the greenest Singles know the spies have their own squads in Army. But we'd be lost without the Tactical guild. A lot of their best students go Command, but the guild is as strong as ever. The guy you just saw, he graduated Tactical to Command some time ago. Geniuses. Ugh." Tactical – the guild Quill guessed I would be in. Garmadon catches my eye and raises an eyebrow, a look I don't really know what to make of. Even so, he must at least think the rebel action is impressive.

We finally reach the far wall, which is entirely made of elevator doors going up and down incredibly fast. Louis pats the door we're about to enter lovingly.

"Mechanic's guild. These are the poorer quality of their productions."

"Poorer quality?" I ask, eyes roaming the gleaming silver and slick leather of the elevators as they zip away.

"You should see some of the war machines those boys have created. Mighty fine, they are." Our lift's door dings open and we walk into the space quickly, feet squeaking against the slick floors that are meticulously waxed by the Service guild, I assume. My distorted reflection wavers in the shine and to my surprise, I look scared… Or maybe that's just the reflection.

"Where are we going?" Garmadon inquires suspiciously, narrowing his eyes at Quill and Louis.

"You sure have a lot of questions, grandpops. Take it easy. You're going to meet Thrace." I gasp audibly and Garmadon's eyes widen, making for a comical sight.

"Thrace… Your god-on-earth leader you've been ranting about. We can just… Have an audience with him?" Quill shrugs and Louis nods. "Yep. He's very open to what even the Singles have to say. And he meets every recruit. Every single one. We've all met him privately at some point. Usually it's after the test, but you guys probably won't have to take it."

The elevator door dings and the doors slide open with a pleasant whoosh, revealing a hallways altogether. For all the pragmatic style of the lobby downstairs, the hallway is like a mansion merged with a factory. Rich scarlet carpet lines the floors as Garmadon and I step up, cushioning the sound of our shoes and enveloping the soles. The walls are solid concrete, like downstairs, occasionally crisscrossed with pipes or wires. Quill and Louis take the lead again, and Garmadon and I stagger after them, trying to get a good grip on the wobbly floor, arms out for balance. We pass by doors made of some type of nice wood with signs on them – Chief Technician, General Kazu, and the like – all of whom I assume are Command.

At the end of the long hallway is a single door, much like the others, but with a sign that reads:

Thrace

Rebel Leader

"Nice and simple," Garmadon mutters, and I nod. All in all, it makes for a very mysterious scene. I seem to be drawn to the door, to the man behind it, the power in the air so thick I can almost feel it.

"We have to go," Louis whispers, and I turn swiftly, almost forgetting the man's presence. Quill dips his head toward Garmadon and I, then smiles wryly.

"If either of you get the chance, tell Thrace my name. Chief Pilot Quill ain't sounding so bad right now. Anyway, gotta run, Singles to teach and places to be. See ya. Oh, and don't forget to meet in the lobby tomorrow for the start of the Games! The guilds aren't like your precious elements, we mix, so don't try to stick with your little friends if ya make any. Find us, okay? I got bets on Daphnes!" Louis waves and together he and Quill walk back to the elevator and out of sight. As soon as their lift is gone Thrace's door opens and a deep, booming voice resonates from the room inside.

"Enter."

**And this is the part where I thank you. Thank you, dearest reader, for taking the time to read this, it means a lot!**

**And if my Umbridge impersonation couldn't get you to review I don't know what can.**

**Here are some random facts to pass the time before I close:**

**1\. The narrator in Moby Dick is named Ismael. **

**2\. The Pokémon Ekans is Snake spelled backwards.**

**3\. This was probably a stupid idea. Was this a stupid idea? Well, I don't know, because no one will ****_tell _****me if it is...**

**That's all for 3 random stupid facts that you probably didn't read! Tune in next time if you don't quit reading now because of my lame author's notes!**

**Sayonara, my friends. **


	25. Chapter 25

C**hapter 25... I wonder if this is symbolic or something, because it is technically the first Hunger Games chapter - yes, we ****_finally _****made it!**

**So yep, there we have it. Read on! (This should be my catchphrase... Then again, maybe not.)**

_Chapter Twenty Five – Ming_

The alarm is unnecessary; I've been up all night. As soon as the first chorus of buzzing fills the room I slam my hand on the clock, causing it to crack at the top. Oops.

Nevertheless, Muse hears the alarm and whisks into my room, face set. "You'll need to clean up a bit before the Games. No shower, though, and I'm sure you're not hungry." I shake my head to both, silent, because I'm afraid if I open my mouth I'll scream or cry of throw up, none of which would be pleasant. Muse beckons and I stand and follow her, smoothing my hair back and running my fingers through it as a makeshift comb. No need to look too pretty today – today might be my last.

Breakfast, or rather, the lack of it, is awkward and uncomfortable. Brittany tries to not cry, but the tears in her eyes and small squeaks she makes give her away. Ness and Markus both have to take a moment to regain their composure and come back in again, still and solemn. Even Muse seems subdued. Over the last week my stylist and prep team has grown on me, and the thought of leaving them is like a dull ache in my heart. Finally the grueling affair is over and Muse announces that I have to be escorted to the hovercraft.

Brittany bursts into racking sobs and hugs me tight, and tears sting at my eyes too. I grip her tightly and hold her as she cries. "I'll see you again," I whisper. "I promise." This just makes her cry harder, and it takes a while for her to calm down and let me go. Ness goes in for a handshake, but he too hugs me. "You can win this, Ming. Really-truly." Smiling, I look into his eyes. "Really-truly." Markus is last, giving me a farewell hug also and a quick peck on the cheek, playful-like, which startles me but makes the team smile. Muse puts a hand on my shoulder and gazes at me. "Are you ready?" She asks, and a lump rises in my throat. _No, no, I'm not ready. Not ready at all!_ But I put on a brave face and smile weakly. "Yeah. Let's go."

Giving my prep team a final wave, Muse and I exit the living room and walk through the outer room to the lift. I don't see Zant and wonder where he is. Already waiting for the Games to start? In his room despairing for his life? The Nindroid, once I walk in, latches onto my arm tightly with his metal hands, both cold and very strong, the motion quick and practiced. Muse, however, avoids detaining. I glance at my stylist nervously, but she avoids my gaze and reaches forward to press the button for the lobby, but before she can the elevator takes off, moving down quickly, blurring the walls, making the floors shudder. I gulp and move my arm a little, trying to find some leeway in the Nindroid's firm hold, but its hand is steady and strong as steel.

Instead of stopping at the Lobby or a few floors lower like usual, the lift zips down further and further into the ground, swallowing us in the rock walls outside. For a fleeting moment I wonder if the Earth tributes are comfortable this deep underground, but then again, they're going to the Hunger Games, to their deaths, probably. Anyone would feel uncomfortable. Muse makes a small noise in her throat and I turn to see what's the matter, but she doesn't meet my glance. Great, even more cryptic stuff, just what I need.

I begin counting seconds and at 347 we shudder to a halt and the Nindroid shoves me forward, hand still clenched on my arm, eyes burning with mechanical malice. Muse glides out of the lift and I follow her, looking around the small room we are deposited in. The Nindroid throws me – literally tosses me out and I stumble and skitter a few feet, falling to the ground with a cry more of outrage than pain. Muse rushed to my side. By the time I'm up again the Nindroid is gone and the elevator is replaced by a concrete wall with a keypad; Muse must know the code and use it when I've been sent off. Brushing off my knees, I glare at the mundanely blank wall and wish for all the world I could go back and pummel the Nindroid – and then escape, away from the Games, away from Borg…

"Are you all right? I've never seen the guards manhandle the tributes before… But then again, we've never had Nindroid guards." I twist my ponytail nervously and bite my lip, still staring at the door. "Yeah, yeah, I'm fine." Muse purses her lips and walks the perimeter of the room while I recover, and I watch her progress, a short walk because of the smallness of the room.

In one corner is another Nindroid, which Muse avoids on her patrol, and next to him a keypad like the one on the other wall. This is presumably just a waiting room until all of the other tributes are collected. A wall clock reads a digital countdown to the Games, now at 0:33:48. Half an hour until the Arena, until bloodshed and death and war. The Borg Tower residents must be trying to pass the time, eyes constantly flicking back to the countdown. Mine do also, but for a different reason.

"You'll need to change into these." Muse hands me a bundle of clothes and I pull them out individually, examining them. One large, fur-lined coat that drops about halfway to my knees. One pair of dusky brown pants that feel sturdy and durable. One pair of thick woolen socks that rise a few inches above my ankles. My favorite parts of the outfit are the sturdy combat boots that Muse informs me are waterproof and cold-resistant. Muse says I can keep my shirt, as it's part of the Borg-issued Hunger Games outfit. In previous Games, all of the tributes were dressed in the same clothing, to ensure fairness, I assume. This time is no different. My Darkness emblem is stitched onto the jacket and the shirt; I can feel the seams.

0:27:32, Muse puts in a code and the far wall opens to a hangar like the dragon ones, only this time not a dragon nestles on the floor, but a hovercraft, sleek and shining, wings tilted at graceful angles, faintly resembling a bird in flight. This time I'm not surprised when the hand grips my arm and drags me forward to the lowing hatch. From many other directions come the other tributes, all being dragged by Nindroids. Some are unsteady and deathly pale, like they might faint at a moment's notice, but some are confidently strutting forward, keeping pace with the Nindroids. None of them have their stylists with them. Frantically I turn my head and see Muse standing in the doorway of where I entered the hangar, watching my retreating figure. She catches my glance and raises a hand in farewell, the turns as the doors slide shut, dropping a weight into my stomach, a weight of fear and angst and isolation.

So this is it. I am in the Hunger Games. I am now completely alone.

The Nindroids make us stand in groups of two by element, and Zant gives me a sleazy sideways smile, which I ignore, an angry blush rising in my cheeks. I stonily watch the tributes in front of me, especially the Air girl, who seems to be swaying like she's about to collapse. The firm grip of the Nindroids never relent until we've been ushered into the hovercraft, which is a modern-styled mess of wiring, computers, and technological-looking chairs with tall backs that arch over my head when I sit. As soon as I'm settled straps pull me tightly against the chair back, like seatbelts crisscrossing my body. Another Nindroid holding a dozen and a half syringes walks down the aisle, moving from one side to the other, injecting each tribute a tracker. – I know because the Light girl arrogantly and loudly asks exactly _what _they are sticking in her arm. Just my luck, I'm sitting across from Zant, who winks at me when he's injected. Sickening.

The injection doesn't hurt as much as the realization that I am now Borg's properly tracked property. A few of the other elements' tributes flinch when they're given the shot, one girl, the Water one, even gives a small cry of pain. At the sound of her outburst the Career tributes snicker and meet each other's' eyes, nodding their heads towards the girl and making faces. I can't see the Water girl's expression, or if she even realizes the Careers' jibes, but my fingers tingle dangerously at their obvious and open display of cruelty. This is only the beginning though. A more obvious display of cruelty is their killing her.

The hovercraft gives a massive lurch and all of the lights go out, making some of the girls gasp, but I know that we're only taking to the air. Soon electric strips of light buzz into being and the hold where we sit is lit pale blue. No one speaks. No one moves. No one breathes.

I remember the day on the playground, when Kai, who sits in this hovercraft right now, saved me from the Borg-loving Metal boys, how before he stepped out I felt totally and utterly alone. Looking back, I realize how wrong I was. Then, yes, I was alone, but now, here? No one has anyone in the Games. No one has anyone anymore. The only thing I have left is myself… And maybe Muse, and my prep team, and my mentor. Muse won't let me die. I know that for certain. I won't let myself die either.

The ride lasts for a while, too late to count seconds now. Surely the genius Ice tributes are calculating out distance, seems like their kind of thing, but it won't help them when they wind up dead. Not like we're getting out of the Arena anyways. Zant shifts in his seat, causing the others to look at him, but I don't blame him. The many seatbelts are cutting into my arms and legs, chafing them like the grip of the Nindroids. Even in the half-light I can make out red bruises on the arm of the tribute next to me, the Earth boy. My own arm throbs in sympathy and my fingers clench, nails digging into my palms. The sharp shock of pain is enough to jolt me back into reality. Let the Earth boy's arm hurt; I welcome it. Anything can help in the Games.

I feel the hovercraft beginning the slow and the engine splutters, filling the hold with noise and clanking and buzzing that fills my head and makes the chairs shudder. A sharp intake of breath causes me to look up and I see the Earth boy with eyes closed, breathing shallowly. In a way, it makes sense – the Earth tributes would be more comfortable on the ground. I store the knowledge away for later; maybe I can use it in the Arena.

As if we haven't had enough of the Nindroids, they come back in again while the seatbelts are unclasping and yank up upwards, causing many tributes, me included, to stumble. One by one the tributes are shown out to door into a circular corridor and go into a room with their elemental symbol on it. Since Darkness is early alphabetically, I don't have far to walk. Again the Nindroid shoves me in and walks out, an ominous clicking of a lock following his departure.

My new prison is made of solid concrete, quite small, with a huge human-sized tube in the corner that has a door hanging open, where I will presumably be beamed up to the Arena. Trembling, I make my way to the tube and stand before it, hand on the door handle, clenching it so tightly my knuckles whiten. I know this room, where the tributes stay before the Games begin. Usually the stylists are here. Muse's face swims before me and I gulp, forcing her away. More than ever, I have to be strong.

"Sixty seconds to surface." I slowly lower myself to the ground, my knees weakening as I touch the surface of the tube. It's all so real now. But I can do this, I can win this. _Be strong._

"Forty-five seconds to surface." After a few more moments on the floor I heave myself up and jog quickly around the room, feeling the extent of my clothes, warming myself up for the run ahead. I do a few brief stretches and push-ups, more to pass the time than exercise, but the burn in my muscles feels good.

"Fifteen seconds to surface. Tributes are instructed to enter their designated tubes." I wonder what would happen if I just sat on the floor and didn't go up. Would the Nindroids come and shove me in, or would they kill me on the spot? Deliriously, I laugh and clamber into the tube, which seals itself behind me. By instinct my hands reach out and feel the smooth plastic, cold on my sweaty palms, oddly calming. I can win this. Worry is behind me. I can win this.

"Zero seconds to surface. All tributes entered. Ascension to surface in three… two… one." My tube begins to slide upwards, the waiting room fading beneath me, exiting my consciousness. All I have eyes for is the Arena above.

Blinding light seeps into the tube as I am lifted to the surface and into the Arena, which, after the dimness of the waiting room, makes me flinch. Squinting, I see the Cornucopia in the middle of a small plain, maybe one hundred yards from my elevation point, with packages and bundles and weapons stored up around the mouth and radiating out from the middle. Everything is silent, not even the wind making a sound, which is surprisingly and startlingly cold. I pull the jacket tighter around my body and spin in a circle, examining my Arena, my competition, my supplies.

The Hunger Games has officially begun.

**I'm actually considering making a poll on who you think will win the Games, because why not, right? In case you haven't noticed, I'm kinda making this up as I go along :)**

**And a shoutout to all the people who even read this - thank you.**

**You: Ugh, we literally do this every time. ****_Every. Time. _**

**Me: Yes, well, I really do want to thank you.**

**You: But I ****_know _****that you do, whatever! Just stop thanking me!**

**Me: *aggressive glare* I do what I want! **

**But really, thank you for reading. The fact that you would spend your time to read this is huge to me, so thanks.**

**You: Okay, just stop thanking me.**

**And now for my three facts of the update:**

**1\. The Animas River in California is now orange because a bunch of pollutants got spilled in it. ****_Orange. _****Like, Weasley orange.**

**2\. On the topic of Weasley, the only time Charlie ever shows up in the movies is in the picture of the Weasleys in Egypt. I think he's the guy wearing the fez. (Fezzes are cool.)**

**3\. The best gelato in Venice is from a shop called Grom - although that may be a matter of opinion. **

**And with that delicious thought in mind I bid thee farewell, until next time! **


	26. Chapter 26

**This chapter is kind of short... Don't feel cheated. **

**And we're finally, finally, ****_finally _****in the Hunger Games! It's been a while, huh? The tribute chapters will all be in the Games, so your waiting in eager anticipation won't be in vain.**

**At least, I assume you're eager... Right?**

_Chapter Twenty Six – Lloyd_

The first thing I notice – not the light, not the terrain – is the cold. A chilling wind rushes across the plain and I bury my hands in my pockets by force of habit, then pull them out shakily and ready myself to run.

The sky is a dusky grey, so it must be about morning, the sun hiding behind the cover of thick, flat clouds. Enormous mountains thrust from the earth like pillars to heavens nearly block out the sky past the Cornucopia. Patches of mountains are formed to my left and right, though not nearly as formidable as the ones in front of me. Snow peaks the tallest summits and dusts some of the lower areas.

In contrast to the mountains are the densely wooded forests that begin to grow a little ways off from the Cornucopia. They fill the gaps between the mountain ranges, rolling up in sprawling hills and extending as far as the eye can see, like an expansive green carpet. A rocky, uneven plain stretches from where I stand to the Cornucopia. A distance I will soon have to run.

The other tributes look various shades of ready. The Careers are poised and ready to sprint. Some of the others are in on-your-mark-get-set positions too. A few of the younger tributes are standing frozen, stock-still, on their platforms. Better than running right off, though – you'd be blown all the way to the peak of the mountains with all the explosives packed under the surface of the ground near the platforms, whose job it is to keep tributes in one place until the end of the countdown.

The nearest tributes to me are the Light girl and the Air boy, who are both in ready to run stances. I copy their motion and watch as the timer shimmering over the Cornucopia ticks down, heart thumping, mind racing.

Run from the bloodbath. Find water. Find high ground. Get a backpack if you can. My eyes rake over the field and I see a reasonably close pack that I think I can take before I run. Don't ally yourself with anyone. Get ready. Watch out for poisonous plants. My palms itch with sweat and I wipe them on my trousers, which wick away the liquid in a second. Eyes on the clock. 22. 21. Don't look at the tributes. 15. 14. Get the backpack, run away, find shelter, find water, find high ground, don't look back, never look back, whatever you do don't look back.

4\. 3. 2. 1. May the odds be ever in your favor.

Zero.

As I leap forward from my pedestal, arms pumping, feet flying, all hell breaks loose.

The screaming begins almost instantly – starting with screams of fear, of excitement, and then those of agony, of death, of pain. I'm still sprinting for my backpack, speeding over the rocks and the packed earth, running, running, running for the backpack, no, running for my life, gotta get away, gotta be safe, go! I stumble over a stone jutting out of the ground and nearly fall, steadying myself with a hand, still moving for the pack, which is so close now…

I yelp as my feet fly out from under me and I skid forward straight into my pack, grabbing it with both arms, rolling over on my side, having not lost all of my momentum yet. My calf stings and I see a thin line of blood rise on my pants leg. I was tripped by a knife. Glancing up, I see the Light girl Medli approaching me, holding a throwing knife in her hand and grinning murderously. My shoes scrabble on the ground as I try to scoot away as she raises her arm for the kill. Frantically, I roll to the side and sling the pack onto my back, dig my shoes into the earth, and take off. The knife whizzes by and is buried hilt-deep in the ground where I lay prone seconds ago. In the spur of the moment I snatch it and shove it into my bag and dash as quickly as I can to the cover of the woods, not looking back, can't look back, won't look back, promised not to look back.

The woods envelop me in a cool shadow, a false safety, and I blunder on, forcing my way through bushes and underbrush, tripping over roots, and scrambling up steep cliff-like hills. Often times large areas of rock will jut out from the ground and form small obelisks or monuments, but I zip past them only long enough to comprehend this. I will not stop running. I cannot stop running.

Thorns and brambles tear at my pants legs and coat, pulling the fabric and causing small puffs of cotton or something to poke from the scratches. The leg wounded by Medli's knife burns with every step. My backpack begins to chafe against my shoulders, and I grip it tightly with sweaty, stinging hands. A stem whips out from the dense foliage and hits me across the cheek, but I only push it aside and stumble on, panting.

The trees grow closer together as I run by, with tall, sweeping trunks and scarred bark. Thankfully, the bushes and small trees and thorns become more and more sparse as I carry on. I can't tell how long I've been running – the sun is blocked by the trees and I can't really remember how to judge the time from training – but it feels like ages. My backpack weighs as much as a Nindroid, and I can barely drag my feet when I walk. My eyes sting and I wipe the sweat from my forehead, boots thumping on the ground heavily. In only a few seconds I stop moving altogether and sit on the ground, breathing hard.

First I take inventory and open my pack, feeling inside its smooth interior. My hand touches something long and coarse and I pull out a length of coiled rope. It feels strong and durable when I tug on it and I set it aside, wondering what I could use it for. Next I grab my knife, the one Medli tried to kill me with. It's a good-sized knife, and I set it on top of the rope. A small bag in one of the pockets contains dried fruit. After a long run the smell of the apple slices is tantalizing, but I put it with my other supplies. I can't eat now, I've barely been in the Games a few hours, maybe not even that long. Why would I waste my food so soon? The last item my bag yields is a small, plastic box tinted red with a waterproof clasp to open it. Inside is a small roll of gauze, some adhesive bandages, and a dozen pills about as large as half my fingernail – a first aid kit, easily the gem of the collection. I put everything back in its place in the pack, except the knife, which I shove through my belt for safekeeping.

Having organized my stuff, I try to stand, but my muscles groan in protest and I lower myself down again. I have to move. Gripping a nearby tree, I pull myself off of the ground and walk forward a few steps, wobbling unsteadily. Now that I'm away from the Cornucopia, I can begin to strategize. Finn's advice – find water. I don't remember ever coming across a brook or a pond while I ran, so I need to find low ground. I hang my pack on a loose branch and begin to climb one of the trees.

My hands are shaking as I ascend and I wonder many times if I'll fall, but I make it to the top of the tree safely and I glance over the canopy to see where the ground dips downward. It's hard to tell, with the dim light from the cloudy sky and the harsh wind, but I see the trees start to lower a short ways from my vantage point. The sun shines in my eyes, having found a chink in the wall of clouds, and I squint to see, shielding the glare with my hand, swaying gently on the branch. Then the light fades away as quickly as it came. I tarry on the branch a moment longer, admiring the view, which is a nice one – or would be a nice one if it weren't the Hunger Games.

Quickly and deftly I shimmy down the tree to the ground, which is a much easier trip going down than it was up. The hard-packed earth under my boots is a welcome feeling. I'm just about to set off when the ground trembles and a flash of brilliant light illuminates the cloudy sky. A crack of lightning splinters the sky and the thunder that follows forces me to my knees. I only have time to look up when the rain begins to fall.

**And, funnily enough, I made that poll on who you think will win the Games. You don't have to, but why not put in your vote, see what you think? Even though this is the first Games chapter and all, you all have your opinions. :) **

**And if you like it enough (or not) why not also write a review? **

**I guess that's all for tonight. Now I have to think of another way to say goodbye, since sayonara and farewell and stuff have already been used...**

**May the odds be ever in your favor! **


	27. Chapter 27

**And we're extra late today, apologies, apologies. **

**And we're also in the Hunger Games so get excited!**

***distant cheering***

_Chapter Twenty Seven – Kai_

The rainfall doesn't start like any ordinary rain – it's like the entirety of the heavens were a great sea and it all decided to come crashing down.

Instantly I'm drenched, like I just fell into some great lake, the water pounding me down, shoving me to the muddy ground. I fight for balance and stumble forward a few steps, completely blinded, the jacked providing no protection from the storm. A flash of lighting races across the sky and thunder booms behind its path with the sound of an enormous drum. I crawl forward now, lying flat and using my elbows and knees to move, mud splashing onto my face and into my mouth. When I spit out the gritty water rainwater takes its place and I gag at the taste. Digging into the mud with my hands, I heave myself forward and keep crawling.

For at least an hour I carry on like this, dragging myself through the mud in the direction I had been running, blindly pulling at the roots and rocks and tree branches that litter the floor. Occasionally a bolt of lightning will flash and the thunder will shake the ground. I begin to count the seconds so as to see how far away the center of the storm is, but the pounding rain and the thundering and flashes mix together and I can only crawl more, move faster…

Somehow I crawl into a spot that is much drier than all of the area around it, a cave of sorts, because I can feel the cool stone walls, and I wipe the water from my eyes and look around for the first time since the rain began. My shelter is a small alcove in a rock wall, maybe in the mountains, but the rain obscures the view like a silvery-blue curtain and I can only see the rocky walls and ground. My clothes are dripping and wet strands of my hair hang in my eyes. A chilling wind blows through the space and I shiver, my soaked clothes offering no warmth.

Now that I'm out of the rain, I can go over my supplies. I've already guessed what's in the pack I collected, a huge one fairly near the Cornucopia and obviously meant for the Careers. The rain won't subside for at least a few hours, maybe more, so I'll have some time on my hands until I can move about again.

My pack is quite large and heavy, made of sturdy black fabric closely knit of synthetic fabric, exactly the same as some of the fabrics for waterproof products I've traded for. It's more brown than black now, though, caked in still-wet mud and flecked with twigs and leaves and small rocks, all the better for camouflage. I unzip the pack's main compartment and look inside. There's the standard things, as I guessed – a first aid kit, seemingly useful to some, but actually pretty useless, with a few rolls of gauze and pills that are probably sugar pills and not real medicine, a packet of dried chicken, looking especially small and not at all filling, a tiny pocketknife for sharpening sticks or something, not useful for much else, and a pair of gloves, which I leave in the pocket to keep them dry. The real prize is a long knife, a retractable one that flips back and out from its handle. The blade is strong and wickedly sharp, and the handle is made of a firm and textured grip, with the switch to flip the blade out easily accessible.

In the small pocket on the outside I have stuffed leaves, twigs, and other items of nature in for examination. They're like none I've ever seen before, not even in training nor trading. It's easy to see that they contain a code, but it's the hardest code that I've ever experienced. Nothing seems to add to it, every leaf different with a different coded message. There has to be a cipher, but I haven't found it yet. Mildly frustrated, I put the stuff back and lean against the rocky wall, staring out at the curtain of rain.

A jolt of thunder shakes me awake and my eyes snap open, only to find the rain still pouring just as it was before I fell asleep. As I shift forward my stomach growls painfully and I get to my knees, determined. I should find some food when the rain stops, but when will it? I have to way to see in the torrential downpour, and thus no way to find food. The dried chicken in my backpack suddenly seems very appetizing, but there's no way I'm going to eat it now. I settle back against the alcove's wall and try to sleep again, but the stabs of hunger and the general discomfort of sleeping against a rock wall prevent me for doing so. I puzzle over the leaves for a few hours until I'm sick of them and go through my pack again, bored.

The other tributes must be hopelessly lost or hiding like I am, holed up in their place of refuge with nothing to do. I remember a Games where the Careers got special night-vision goggles, the likes of which even I have never seen in trading. They probably wouldn't be useful in rain, but anything would be useful now.

Again I return to the leaves, trying various codes, Borg's or otherwise – the kind found in the satchels, some nature ones found from Groot, and even knitting patterns – anything! – but they all fail. Angrily I crumple one of the twigs and the pieces fall to the rock-strewn floor. I expected lots from the Games, but not boredom. Then again, there are who-knows-how-many kids out there trying to kill me, so maybe I'm not as bored as I think.

Another explosion rocks the ground, but it's not thunder – it's the tribute death cannon. A second follows, and then silence. Only two deaths? Usually the number is much higher, and the screams and shouts at the Cornucopia seemed to hint otherwise. Maybe some were wounded… A seed of worry turns my stomach, not about the Games and my own fate, but of something else that I can't place. If the rain stops I'll be able to see who has died today. Surely the Careers have banded together and there are six of them – a third of all the tributes! I glance nervously at the rainfall, as if expecting one of them to lurch through baring a bloody knife. I pull my flip-blade from a pocket and hold it in my hand, feeling its balance. I can hold my own when a fight comes. Sometimes trades can get ugly, but they rarely result in brawls. Even so, when confronted with a fight, I can usually read a person's actions and tell their next move. But the Careers are so well-trained, surely they've learned not to telegraph their punches.

Despite my hunger and cold, I manage to fall asleep again, and when I wake this time the rain has abated, stray water dripping from the mouth of my cave, forming small streams that cut through the muddy earth. I lean forward and pull my coat off, cracking the dried mud and peeling the wet fabric from my skin. The shock of the cold comes next, but I need my coat to dry if it's going to be of any use to me. My undershirt is similarly soaked, but I can't risk hypothermia now and despite its dampness, I need some covering. Leaving the coat in the cave to dry, I shoulder my large pack and examine the area in front of me.

The mud is the best for tracking, fresh and damp, and I can't risk being seen. Without stepping out into the mud, I twist around the mouth of the cave and snatch some pine needles from a leaning tree and stick them firmly to the mud caking my boots, completely covering the soles and the toes. When I step now it distributes the weight over a larger surface area, leaving behind a strange, sunburst-like print instead of the easily recognizable footprint. When I step lightly you can barely tell where I stood. Perfect.

I make my way along the area near the alcove so as not to get lost, even though I have a pretty good sense of direction. A few bushes of berries sprout to my left as I venture a few steps into the woods, but I ignore them, traps for the young kids who are starving and need food. The poison isn't extremely potent – I've seen their like in trading, if not those exact berries – but they'll make one very ill for a while. The trees have dropped many leaves and branches in the rain and my disguised footsteps are nigh invisible.

My first meal collected is from a tall, stalk-like plant that tastes slightly spicy. It grows in a bunch by a tall pine tree and I pick some leaves in choice places that make it look like no one has taken any – better than stripping the stems and leave obvious clues for any hunting Careers.

Next I happen upon a tree with nuts that taste starchy and woody, and there are a lot of them. I take most of them from the ground, the ones that had fallen in the storm, but also from the drooping branches. I don't risk climbing the tree, I'm still sore and sluggish from sleeping in a cramped space, and my hands are numb with cold. Suddenly I remember the gloves in my backpack and put them on. They're like the ones Nya knits sometimes, woolly and warm but without any grip. However, they'll do for now.

After I've collected good amount of food, which should last me for a while, I go back to the cave as the sun sets, casting vibrant red light across the woods. I can now see that my cave is part of a tall, craggy mountain slope that stretches up into the clouds, which are still grey and thick like they were before the rain. The very tip of the peak has some snow on the top, maybe an inch, nothing much. The sight of the snow reminds me of my coat back in the cave, hopefully dry now, and I jog lightly back.

My coat is still slightly damp when I return, but it's not nearly as bad as it was, so I slip it on and feel the flood of warmth. I take off the gloves and put them back in my pack, carefully, because it feels like Nya is there, like she's knitted them for me. At least I'm not entirely alone in the Games, if memories can count.

As I settle in the cave again I notice that it is nicely hidden from view by the leaning pine trees that form a circle around it. I sit down on the stone and look out at the fading light of the sun, a dim glimmer through the clouds, no longer the brilliant reds and oranges. A fanfare of electronic trumpets startles me and I jump, searching the sky for the Borg Enterprises emblem. Sure enough, the "BE" glows like a beacon in the sky, casting blueish light over the trees, easily visible from all over the Arena. The letters shimmer and are replaced by the face of Aimee, with a subtitle, "The Fallen", beneath her. Next is the Lightning girl, smiling and rosy-cheeked, just like she was in life. Both girls, both never really competitors. I wonder who killed them. The weaker tributes are getting whittled down, on their own stupidity or by the hands of someone else, I don't know. Unfortunately, the next victim could be me. The weak tributes can serve as a sort of shield, getting killed before some of the others. As the weak tributes die the competition narrows. The Games have begun, I need to be on my guard.

Even though I've already slept twice today, sleep comes easily again. However, it isn't pleasant. Borg stands before everyone in the Auditorium, with Nya bound and chained at his feet. He raises a long sword and shows it to the crowd, who cheer for her blood. I stand and punch the man next to me who is screaming, "Do it! Do it!" He seems unaffected by the blow and turns to face me. Only then do I see his face, and the faces of the crowd, all Nindroids with bloodred eyes and lowered masks, revealing gaping smiles with blood-flecked teeth.

I awake with a start, trembling but quiet, never uttering a sound. I will win these Games for Nya. I will save her from the clutches of Borg.

**I also realized we didn't do our three facts last time, so here we go. These ones are about me now!**

**1\. I appear to be the only person who actually liked Skyward Sword **

**2\. My favorite song is Bohemian Rhapsody**

**3\. My favorite Harry Potter book is the Half-Blood Prince - and the first and seventh ones tie for second**

**And maybe we should add another one:**

**4\. The first person to respond to either poll receives riches and immense wealth and glory***

***Messaging and data rates may apply**

**Maybe you want to wait until you finish the story before reviewing. Maybe you just don't care. But why not just pop over and submit your opinion? All comments are welcome, even (and especially) criticizing ones. So don't let that scare you away!**

**And that's all for now, dear reader. Allons-y!**


	28. Chapter 28

**Guess what, I'm late again. I might move the update day to Saturday because my schedule has been hectic, but we'll see. For now, though... **

_Chapter Twenty Eight – Wu_

Garmadon, always the older and the braver, steps forward and takes the handle of the door. Automatically I feel a small twinge in my thumb from when I usually open doors – the blood test. Never again will I feel the needle in my finger to verify who I am. It's strange, all of the Complex traditions that I'll be leaving behind. The door swings open as Garmadon walks into the room and I follow him, meek and silent. We are in the presence of the rebel leader, must he be so flamboyant?

The room we enter is very bare, containing only a large wooden desk, immaculately polished but scratched and scarred with use, two metal chairs, and the banners for the guilds hanging from the back wall. The rich carpet ends at the door and my boots echo against the concrete, which feels strangely hard under my feet. The walls, too, are concrete, and very clean. Even so, the banners are hung slightly off, somewhat tilted and scuffed, giving the room an airiness and comfortable messiness that puts me at ease. Thrace does not yet seem like an uptight, strict rebel leader. He seems relaxed, controlled.

And then there is Thrace himself. His eyes are dark black, not like empty pits but warm and shining, but still maintaining a gaze of control. His skin is very dark, and his hair is black and close-cropped, military style, contrasting the olive green of his rebel jumpsuit, the same as all of the other soldiers, with a single Command patch. As soon as my brother and I enter he stands and extends a hand to shake, beginning to speak.

"Welcome to my operation. It's a pleasure to meet you at last." I shoot a pointed look at Garmadon.

"At last?"

He shrugs impassively. "I'd been in contact with one of Thrace's operatives for a long while. You were receiving the evidence of my investigation. We were prime candidates for inside men." A spark of pride sounds in Garmadon's voice and I frown.

"Please, sit." Thrace stands until Garmadon and I have taken our chairs and he follows suit. "How much do you know about the rebels so far? Quill and Louis may not have answered all of your questions fully."

"Er… Yes…" Garmadon begins. "How exactly was this whole thing founded? Who began it?" He opens his mouth to ask another question, but Thrace nods and he freezes.  
"I have been the founder of the rebel motion for years. It's a relatively young operation – maybe thirty or so years old, give or take. I suppose it begins with me." Thrace's speech is clipped and refined, unlike the lax drawling speak of the soldiers, making him seem even more elevated.

"I was the son of a Metal and an Earth, survived the Reapings until I was eighteen. I'm afraid my record with Borg was not entirely a clean one. Both of my parents were killed – my mother of illness and my father was shot in a storming of the police in the trade outpost. He was caught in the crossfire, though I suppose that was the point. I was always very self-sufficient, even as a child, and I wanted to do something. It started small – swiping food and bringing it to the kids in the home, trashing the school offices, slipping sly references of rebellion. A few other of my friends joined me, and together we started a small following. Even at our age we were clever, and some of the traders started donating to our cause. I was maybe sixteen then." Thrace takes a breath, eyes on me, and I suddenly feel small under his gaze.

"Borg obviously knew, but he was a young dictator and was still testing the waters. The prime time for us – when the people were still in doubt. Even so, we were kids. Foolish children, thinking we had our own small rebellion.

"He began cracking down on us, sending police to our families, threats, even sending some of the parentless kids to the home. We thought it was all great, that we were actually a threat that Borg needed to deal with. Stupid, stupid. One of the boys went into the Auditorium at night with some traded paint to write messages or something and the guards caught him. He was shot on sight and died.

"Our childish fun ended then. We weren't children anymore. We had led that boy to his death and we knew it. Only then did we get serious. Our best traders were sent out to find rebellious groups and they brought back nothing every day. But even after the boy's death, we had full support of the traders and many people in the Complex. If we couldn't find a rebel group we would make one. This was no more childish nonsense. We were serious.

"With many traders and families we made a group of rebels to go and scout out a location for our base – the base we're in now. Borg knew that there was unrest, but he couldn't pin it to us. He had so much more to do than deal with rebellion, especially from 'those kids he had to deal with.' If there ever was an opportunity, it was now.

"For a few years we remained at the Complex, docile and Borg-loving, while architects and builders slipped slowly from Borg's grasp to work on our base. The main building was completed in two years – furnishings, clean water, food sources, all you would need to survive – but we needed to fight. For the last year we raided weapon supplies for Borg, stole blueprints for prototype planes, found ways to manufacture our own tools for war. Soon I, we, were self-sufficient again.

"There was a mass exodus to the rebel base. Every tracker or device to find us was stripped. Suddenly, to Borg, a whole host of people had vanished without a trace. But we left a trace, oh, yes. Operatives like the one Garmadon knows find potential rebels. Inside men. Recruits. Advisors. Because Garmadon occupies a good position in the civilian's hierarchy of workers he was chosen as an informer and tactician. He advised we include you, too, Wu. We interviewed your brother and have cleared him for rebel action. But now it's your turn." Thrace's eyes suddenly drain of kindness, now steely and grim.

"You were requested by Borg to be a Gamemaker and declined. Why?"

I bristle and my fists clench. "You think I would _enjoy_ killing children? You think I would accept that job?" My throat tightens and I see Lloyd, now subject of the Gamemakers. "You're sick."

Thrace only shakes his head. "Garmadon fed you rebellious information about the period of change we are going through right now. Did you read this?"

"Yes." The teacher who was killed. Nindroids. Larson, the man shot by Borg's men before they were replaced by Nindroids.

"Borg knows there are pivotal points in his reign, and he foresaw this one. Isn't it obvious? The Nindroids are easily the most recognizable shift in the balance. He's forming a buffer because he thinks we'll strike. But what he doesn't know is that we've already struck." Garmadon's lips twitch into a smile, like he and Thrace are sharing an inside joke. Angry to be on the outside of things, I turn to the rebel leader.

"The hacker? Game over?"

Thrace chuckles, a warm sound, but it only flares my anger. "That was one of our men in Tactical guild. A squad leader. You are very skilled at the computer, Wu. You'll be of great use to us."

Garmadon clears his throat, trying to get Thrace's attention. "Will we be taking any tests? Quill and Louis mentioned one." Thrace shakes his head.

"I've decided for you both to be elevated to Command as Advisors. Tactical guild has advisory squads, but I want you two in my cabinet when decisions need to be made. You'll find yourself in good company. I've sent for someone to show you to your rooms. Schedules are displayed on your wall and you can always ring yours up if you forget. Jumpsuits and everything you'll need will also be waiting for you. Any more questions, just ask your guide – or really anyone. We get new recruits each day, but most people you ask will know what you need. In a few weeks you'll be an expert around the base."

With an apologetic smile Thrace stands, and we do also. "I have to attend a meeting in a few minutes, if you'll excuse me. It was a pleasure meeting you." With long strides Thrace leaves the room, leaving behind only the sound of his combat boots against the carpet. Garmadon and I stand dumbfounded for a moment, then walk out the door too only to be confronted by a small boy around Lloyd's age wearing the Service guild patch and looking very scared.

"I've been sent to take you to your rooms." He squeaks, not really sure what to make of us. "Right!" Garmadon smiles kindly at the boy and he smiles back, a little unsurely, but he pivots and leads us to the elevator, presses the key for 11, then stands by the doors as we zoom down.

"Level 20 is the lobby floor. Every floor below it is either training quarters or storage for weapons and the like. There are other branching tunnels and things, but you'll get the hang of it. Luckily you have rooms right by the lift. This way." He leads us out of the elevator and into another corridor, this one warmly lit and thinly carpeted, giving it a homey feel even though we're underground.

After a short walk the boy shows me my room, next to Garmadon's, and I peer inside. There's a small bed, a dresser with many jumpsuits all with the Command patch, and on top of it a small television that is broadcasting the Hunger Games live. I snap it off as soon as I can.

"D'you need anything, um, sir?" The boy asks, and I shake my head. "No, thank you." Glad to be out of my presence, he dashes away. So like Lloyd. Then my eyes wander to the television and I remember the Hunger Games. So unlike Lloyd.

Even though the journey wasn't too long, I sit on my bed and lean against the covers, sighing. Above my head is a small light and I look to the wall for a switch to turn it off, and I see a small hologram machine with a schedule that is empty except for "Welcome to the Rebel Base" written across it. Again I think of the rebel boy and Lloyd. Why couldn't Lloyd be here now? Safe and unafraid with his family. Misako and Skye are alone now, though. Garmadon must be worried for them. And Lloyd is his son. Sheepishly, I look over at the wall behind which Garmadon surely stands. His troubles are much greater than mine.

The last thing I see before I fall asleep is the small light glowing over my head, unwavering.

**I was considering posting another chapter today because I don't like this one super much... **

**But who cares? I'll ask again (even though I know it won't do any good, wink wink) why don't you tell me what you think so far or vote on one of the polls? I mean this when I say it - your advice really is helpful. **

**No facts today, partly because I can't think of them :)**

**That's all for today - see you again soon!**


	29. Chapter 29

**And on to the next chapter - it's a little short, but no bonuses this time!**

**Maybe I should give my personal opinion of each chapter before we begin? (Then again, coming from the person who thought random facts were a good idea I'm not so sure.) This chapter is all right... But see for yourself! **

_Chapter Twenty Nine – Ming_

I never expected the Games to be comfortable, but nothing like this ever crossed my mind.

My jacket is soaked and muddy, with drips of frigid water tracing paths down my back constantly, making me feel like I'm melting. My hair is matted and dirty, with twigs and leaves poking out of it, tangling in knots. Every inch of me is soaked and freezing, even my socks. My stomach growls painfully but I push the idea of food away. The first berries I ate made me throw up all of my breakfast and probably dinner, too. No way am I risking that again.

Shelter is a small dip in the earth surrounded by tall, droopy trees with tufty branches that serve as a canopy shielding me from view. There are a few places where I'm visible from the outside, but my muddy wear and the branches should serve as decent camouflage, and you wouldn't be able to tell unless you were looking carefully. My camp is maybe seven or eight miles from the Cornucopia, but it's hard to judge distances with the endless, sprawling forest and mountains that seem to repeat on a loop forever. The Arena has boundaries, but I haven't found them yet.

The torrential rain flooded a river nearby my camp, so I have a supply of water, but it's not clean and I have no way of storing it. The only thing I took from the Cornucopia is a spool of twine – a rather large one, too. I've already used some of it to make trip-wires around my camp that rustle the tree leaves if activated. Then again, the tree leaves are always rustling with the wind that never seems to cease, so the most my wires will do is make my attacker stumble. That should give me enough time to retaliate.

I don't really trust the berries now, so for hunting I use a jagged rock to sharpen a stick as a spear and venture to the creek. The river is swollen and fast-moving, and as I guessed, a multitude of fish swim through the clear water, weaving and bobbing back and forth, fat and delectable. My stomach twists with pain and I salivate at the sight of them. It's the first morning and I haven't eaten anything except the puke-berries, which didn't exactly make for a great meal. Anything will do now.

Situating myself on a rock, I prepare my improvised spear to get a few fish. After maybe twenty minutes, though, it becomes evident that I am no whiz at fishing. Each fish seems to dart out of the way a half second before the spear splashes into the water. I'm cold and starving and frustrated, but I can't do it now. I can't risk Borg knowing so soon.

Hunger wins over, though, and I mutter a soft word under my breath. The fish slow their swimming to a snail's pace. The water sways lazily and even the branches wave lethargically as if time has slowed down. Which, in fact, it has. I stab a few fish greedily and snatch them off of the spear then hurry back to my camp as the time-slowing wears off. The slimy fish bodies smell foul in my hands, but I ignore the stench and lay them on the floor of my shelter to skin them.

The meat-extracting process is horrid and bloody and awful, full of guts and bones and other terrible things that I hope to never encounter again. _Get used to it,_ I think, _this is the Hunger Games._ When I've finally collected a sizeable amount of fish meat, I take the entrails and bury them a few inches in the ground and cover them with twigs and pine needles. I can't risk anyone tracking my moves based on garbage.

Starting the fire takes even longer, and when I finally get a decent blaze my hands and splinter full and blistered from spinning the wood stick against the other. In an attempt to control the smoke I take a branch with a few leaves and wave it over the steam, breaking up the recognizable line of a fire that the Careers would surely see. I lay the fish on a few fire-warmed stones and set them in the heart of the blaze, carefully. Getting the fish was one thing. I have to do everything else conventionally now.

In no time the delectable scent of fish wafts toward me and I can't help myself, taking a half-cooked slab of fish meat and scarfing it down eagerly. Satisfied, I wait for the other meats to cook through and then fold them in leaves, like wrapping-paper, and set them aside for later. I'll need a bag or something to hold them in, but for now they can just stay at camp.

Near the neatly wrapped fish is tally marker free of tally marks, drawn in the dirt, which I aim to use to count the tribute deaths. Today has been an unusually calm day… Which leads me to think the Gamemakers are up to something malicious.

The day wears on slowly, cold and windy as always. My coat refuses to dry, so I hang it from a bough and hope that the wind might air it out a little. Without my main buffer against the biting air I shiver, but I can bear it. Then again, not exactly like I have a choice. My socks are also damp, and because they are smaller I lay them near the fire to dry, keeping them away from stray embers. Even my boots are sodden, so I set a few of the hot stones in the shoes to hopefully warm them – if not burn them. No smell of seared leather comes from the boots after a minute or two, though, so I figure they're all right. The rest of my clothes are wet, too, but there's absolutely no way I'm undressing on live television, no matter how miserable I am, no way. "That would cause quite a stir," I mumble, and scoot closer to the fire for warmth.

The coals shift and glow as the fire dies out and I slide on my boots, reasonably more dry now, and stamp on the ashes. Water would be better, but more recognizable, I remember from training. If I can simply disguise the charred wood it is much harder to pick out. The night is coming on fast and I take down my coat from the branch. It's not much improved, but at least it's a little warmer now. Tossing a few leaves and woodchips over the fire remnants, I ready myself to sleep.

At first it just seemed like the trees were blowing in the breeze, their leaves swishing and swaying like normal… But now I see the trunks bending and moving, too, shivering on their roots. Frantically I stand and take in my surroundings. The stones on the put-out fire clatter together and I spin to look at them. My legs are moving now, out of fear, or… Earthquake.

Snatching the fish meat in my hands, I stuff it and my twine in a jacket pocket and sprint out of my shelter into the woods. I've only gone a few feet before I trip and fall, flailing, legs twisted, to the ground. My trip wire did its work too well. Wiping mud and leaves from my knees, I scramble upright and dash forward. The trees all around me, even the largest, most solid ones, are moving now, trembling and vibrating. The shaking of the earth makes my legs quake and I stumble on, struggling for footing. A splintering crash behind me alerts the fall of a tree. And another, and another. Moaning sounds to my left and I swivel to see a massive tree trunk leaning straight towards me, and with a strangled cry I throw myself out of the way. It thuds beside me with a sound of finality. Pushing with my feet, I get up again and keep moving, sidestepping fallen saplings and enormous branches that litter my path.

The ground gives a wild quake and I collapse to my knees, pain flaring in my legs. I have to keep moving! The leaves and tree branches rattle together, filling my ears with a constant swish-swishing. Maybe I tarry on the ground for too long and the Gamemakers see their chance. Before I can stand again a tree nearby gives a loud snap and crashes down towards me, falling across the backs of my lower legs. I shout in shock more than pain and manage to pull myself free. One of my boots comes loose in the tug and I yank it from beneath the tree and stand again. Surprisingly, my legs don't hurt too badly, or maybe it's just the adrenaline.

How long has the earthquake lasted? As I stagger on through the shifting forest I try to remember. A few minutes? Another groan of a tree causes me to bound away swiftly, out of harm's way. Are the Gamemakers targeting me? Surely most tributes have taken solace in the woods. How wide is the earthquake's reach? The explosion of a cannon – or is it just another tree? – sounds nearby. Everything is blending together now. My foot catches on a root and I slide down a short hill into a muddy puddle and am blinded momentarily. Wiping the sludge from my eyes, I reach for a handhold and realize the root I grab is not shaking. The earthquake has stopped.

My labored breathing must be audible throughout the Arena as I gasp for air. My calves smart with pain and I touch the pants legs gingerly, thoughtlessly. The earthquake has stopped. In the forest nearby a few branches crack and thump against the ground, sounding muffled compared to the sharp, clear breaking of the trees that were around me in my escape. Still gripping the root, I pull myself up and take a sharp breath as my calves burn when I put weight on my legs. I limp out of the muddy water and sit on the slope I fell down, stretching my legs out in front of me and wincing. It's hard to tell now how much damage the falling tree did. Injuries in the earliest stages of the Games almost always result in death.

I'm unsure of what to do next, but yet again, human nature intervenes and I stretch a trembling hand over my legs and whisper quietly. No flashes of light, no sparkles, no sound effects – I feel a slight burning in my calves, then the heat dies down. Now I try to stand again and find that my body gives no resistance.

Does Borg know I have magic yet? Obviously since the thirteens-test he did. But using my gift in the Games… That's an unfair advantage. Why hasn't he blown me up yet? What's keeping him?

Sleep comes slowly tonight as I lay shivering on the forest floor.

_You have a gift, Ming. Use it. _

**Waitwaitwait... I think this is the first chapter where we know Ming has magic! (Maybe. I'm not entirely sure.)**

**You guys are smart so you probably guessed it already... XD**

**And is it just me who think Merlin and Ming would get along? Anyways, that's a question for later. **

**And by the way I actually have the poll up now on who would win the Games! Key word ****_actually... _****So drop by and vote! You've probably got some favorites by now, and if not there's lots of Games chapters coming up soon! Something to look forward too, right? Can't wait to see what you think!**

**I guess that's all! See ya around.**


	30. Chapter 30

**Okay, what is it, Thursday? Forget updates schedule... Wow. Maybe I should run a mile for every day I'm late as motivation. **

**But I haven't given up on you - because I'm sure you were soooo worried, am I right? I probably should send out two chapters today but I plan to update on Saturday anyways, so it won't be too long.**

**Anyways, ignore the monologue and get to reading!**

_Chapter Thirty – Lloyd _

Since the first second of the Games I've been terrified. Not just scared, not just a little frightened, the pee-in-your-pants scared, the kind of fear that leaves you immobilized and you can't even blink because that's all it takes for them to come and kill you. Sleep deprivation and hunger have driven me half-crazy, and I weakly trudge on, cold and tired and scared stiff. I seem to trip over every rock and root in this whole Arena; they seem to materialize from out of nowhere and suddenly I'm sprawled out on the ground, barely strong enough to pull myself up again and keep going.

My cut leg still stings, but I cleaned the wound after the rainstorm and it's not nearly as painful as I expected. However, after the earthquake I'm hurting in a lot more places. Eyes drooping with weariness, I reach out and lean on a nearby tree, resting for a moment. Everything seems heavier now – my feet, each time I lift them, my eyelids, each time I blink, and my whole body each time I fall. I've resolved not to eat the fruit in my pack, but I can smell it even when it's on the other side of a clearing – or maybe that's just my mind playing tricks on me. Even so, images of poisonous berries and plants swim before my eyes, mixing together. I can't remember which is which – so I avoid the natural food altogether.

The sky is dark as midnight, speckled with stars that gleam eerily against the shadows. The tributes' faces flashed there only moments ago, along with the anthem. I imagine my face shining in the sky as a hovercraft comes to scoop up my body and carry me away, back to the Complex where I'll be buried. I can't let that happen. Heavily, I sit down and shrug my pack off of my shoulders, leaning back against a small hillside, the dewy grass cool and relaxing. Even though I'm in the open, clearly visible, my body betrays me and I begin to fall asleep…

I'm only awoken when the hill behind me gives way and I give a shout and fall backwards into a small ditch of sorts, like the den of some animal that I just caved in. Spitting dirt from my mouth, I'm just about to clamber out when a loud, clear voice shouts, "There!" And footsteps echo in the quiet night air. Every hair on my body stands on end and my heart races. Tributes. Someone has found me.

The noises grow louder and I estimate there are about four of them coming for me – who else but the Careers? The den isn't very well sheltered, and my pack is still in the open! I whip an arm out and drag it in the tunnel, making the nearby bushes swish far too loudly for my liking. "There!" The voice cries again, and I shove the pack in front of me and lie flat in the tunnel, hopefully camouflaged enough that the Careers won't find me. My breaths come short and I clamp a hand over my mouth. Can't let them hear, can't let them know!

"What… Is it?" One of the Careers asks as they sprint into my vision, taking deep breaths as if he's run a long distance. I catch sight of the emblem on his jacket – the Metal boy, Sawyer. He wipes his forehead and looks around swiftly. The other tributes are Medli the Light girl, the Earth girl whose name I don't remember, and Cole the Earth tribute. Cole, too, looks out of breath, but the two girls appear to be unfazed by however far they've run. Medli shushes him and turns in a slow circle, hand at her belt, where I know she'll draw a knife from and kill anything that moves in an instant. Her sharp eyes scan the area and she sees the drag in the mud where I pulled my pack in the tunnel and sits forward on her knees to examine it, only a few feet away from my unprotected body. I can hear every blade of grass rustle as she runs a hand over the marks.

"They're fresh!" She calls to her alliance-mates, and they too look at the marks. "Dunno what was being pulled, though. Think it was one of those trees?" Cole bends down next to the Light girl and frowns, so close to me now that I can make out each individual hair on his head.

"If it were a tree, where is it? Whatever it was, the tribute took it with them." They don't know it's me. They're not targeting me. This is a small relief given the circumstances, but it's relief enough.

"What would a starving, scared tribute kid bring with them? Something from the Cornucopia." Says the Earth girl quietly, and they all turn to look at her. "I mean, what if it were you? You hear someone coming and scram. What would you bring? Your measly little berries or something?"

"A pack…" Sawyer mutters, now moving closer to Cole and Medli. I screw my eyes shut, unable to watch anymore.

"But the tracks end here. He or she must have slung the backpack on their backs and ran. They're clever enough to leave light footprints. My guess is the Fire boy."

"The one who denied the alliance?" The scorn in Medli's voice is obvious.

"Yeah. He's smart, you all can tell. And if these are his tracks, he's not far."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Sawyer shouts, leaping up. I open my eyes for a millisecond, just enough time to see his triumphant grin. "Let's get 'im!"

"Not so fast," says the Earth girl reproachfully, and I look up at the Careers again. Sawyer scowls and crosses his arms, clearly not pleased to be bossed around, but he stays put. "They could have run – or they could still be here." The entire party of tributes falls silent and then back away slowly, readying their weapons. Medli draws a knife and it catches the starlight, gleaming dangerously. My leg throbs when I remember my previous encounter with Medli and her weapons. It won't happen again.

"Fan out." Cole whispers, half-crouched, moving backwards slowly, walking on his boot-toes.

"What do ya think we're doing?" Sawyer replies grouchily, but he, too, moves out. Luckily for me, their attention is no longer near where I lie. Medli, however, keeps glancing back to the pack-marks in the mud. It is their only clue to where I am, after all.

A few minutes pass before Sawyer says, "We're wasting our time. They're obviously gone." He sits down across from the den and glares at Medli. She, too, sits, and then all the Careers have made a pow-wow on the forest floor. As soon as the Earth girl pulls out a fire-starter I know they're here to stay. As if things weren't bad already…

"Sawyer, can you get some wood?" Medli asks sweetly, and Sawyer's dark looks grow darker. I guess he's been the one fetching things for the alliance.

"Get it yourself if you want it so badly." He growls, and leans back against a tree trunk. Medli's eyes shine dangerously bright and she half-rises, but Cole leaps up before she can start towards the arrogant Metal boy.

"I'll get some." He says compromisingly, and Medli lowers herself to the ground again, still watching Sawyer angrily. Cole turns and starts to walk straight towards me, stepping confidently forward. He's only gone a few steps when he reaches the den and his foot travels straight through the dirt and crashes down only an inch from my pack. Cursing quietly, he pulls his foot out and climbs the hill, out of sight. Medli and Sawyer still seem tense, but the Earth girl relaxes, pulling a very small knife, a retractable pocketknife, out of her own pack and traces patters in the dirt. All of the Careers have backpacks, and large ones too, much bigger than my own, and presumably stuffed with a thousand things to kill me. My chest and legs hurt from lying flat on the lumpy ground so long, but even the tiniest movement will give me away and I'll be dead in seconds. Sweat drips from my forehead and into my eyes, stinging them, and I blink rapidly, a haze of water swirling before my eyes. I have to be able to watch the Careers.

In no time Cole returns with an armful of wood, and this time he is scrupulously careful of the den, giving the place he fell into a wide berth. All the better for me… He dumps the wood in the middle of the circle the Careers have formed and sits slightly off-center from where I lie, so I can still see every tribute that sits before me. The Earth girl takes a few stones from nearby and sets then outside of the woodpile and adds a large sized pile of pine needles to the fire. Kindling – that I remember from the fire-starting station in training. Why didn't they have a stand for escaping tough situations like this? At least I'll know how to start a fire as they stab me to death… _Mighty useful, isn't it?_

The Earth girl gets a blaze going and the Careers pull out food from their packs to cook or snack on. The smell wafts over to me but I'm too terrified to even feel hungry. No one speaks while they eat, and I see how divided the Careers really are. They may act like best buddies in training, but in the Arena they know that only one can really win. They don't trust each other.

An hour wears by – a terrible, awful hour of watching in horror while the Careers dine, knowing that only a glance could bring about the firing of my cannon. Cole tries to make small talk, but what really is there to talk about in the Games? Their conversation resorts to the still-living tributes.

"So there's the Air kid, Michael," The Earth girl begins.

"A cinch." Sawyer interrupts, mouth full of rabbit meat. "He's nothing special."

The Earth girl gives him the evil eye, probably for interrupting her, and continues. "The Darkness tributes…"

"The _mysterious_ lot. Both did pretty well in training… They'll have to be eliminated." Sawyer chimes in again, smirking at the Earth girl, who fingers her pocketknife as if she wouldn't mind using it against the Metal boy.

"The Fire boy and girl." Medli adds. "We tried to get Kai to join, remember? He was pretty good."

"His mistake," Cole says, and the Careers laugh a little.

"He could be problematic – the Fire boy is our main competition." Medli says, and do I hear a note of fear in her voice?

"The one who was just here. Shame we missed him."

"The girl shouldn't be a problem either."

"Then there's the Ice tributes." The Earth girl says, and laughs a little as she says it. "They're all brains, and once we have their trail they should be easy enough to find. Finding them, though, will be the tricky part."

"Eh, the Ice kids usually don't last." Sawyer says dismissively, waving a rabbit bone in the air as he gestures. "Nothing too much for us."

"Then there's the Lightning tributes…"

"Trib_ute._" Only one of 'em now. D'you know how she died?" The Metal boy asks, and the three others shrug. "Better for us though."

"We have the Water tributes, so watery they can't stop _bawling…_" Sawyer sneers, then rubs his eyes in the imitation of a baby. "Oh, mommy, I got Reaped and I'm going to the Arena, oh help me mommy…"

"We can't discount anyone's skills, though." The Earth girl adds pensively, who is now tracing the ground with her knife again.

"What skills do those babies have?" Sawyer shakes his head in disbelief.

"And the All-Element tributes. None too many deaths yet." Medli concludes, and the Earth girl looks up from her drawing.

"I wouldn't bet on All-Element. None too powerful, if you know what I mean."

"Don't discount their skills." Sawyer jeers, and the Earth girl's hand twitches on her knife. Medli catches this and stands.

"Come on. We're doing the Fire kid a favor by lingering. Let's go!" Swinging on her pack, the Light girl gestures to the other Careers and they groan and stand up, not even caring to stamp out their fire. Cole leads the way now, moving around the den, and the Careers traipse after him, first walking, then breaking into a slight jog until their footsteps fade from my hearing. They're gone. _They're gone._

I wait an hour before even daring to move, then when I'm sure they're gone I grab my knees to my chest and, for the first time since I've entered the Games, I cry – not loud, racking sobs, but quiet tears that trickle down my cheeks without alerting the Careers to come back and slice me up and cook me over their fire that burns only a few feet away, don't let them come back, please don't let them come back…

**I actually like this chapter (I feel bad saying actually - I ****_do _****like this chapter!)**

**And since you all are such wonderful and excellent readers (oh, please, you make me blush) But I really mean it! (awww well thanks) Then it wouldn't bother you at all to review or send in your votes for a poll! **

**(A poll? Lol you wish! Later, loser!)**

**But wait! All I asked was for a poll vote! Surely you can spare that!**

**(Hahaha nope)**

**But in all seriousness, why don't you vote on my Games poll? I'm 99.99% sure you have an opinion on who will win, so go check it out!**

**...Please?**

**And since its actually up on my profile now then you'll be able to vote! *confetti spirals through air***

**ALL THIS TO SAY... Thanks a million for reading, thanks a million more if you vote. See ya next time!**


	31. Chapter 31

**So am I a liar or what - I say Saturday and you get Sunday. But one day isn't too far off, right...? :/**

**Prepare to be super-mega confused, but I promise everything will make sense eventually!**

**Considering my promises so far, though, that's not saying much...**

***rifles through index of promises* **

**Pinky swear? Cross my heart and hope to die?**

**Whatever... Just read!**

Chapter Thirty One – Wu

The alarm blares wake-up, but I've already dressed in my new jumpsuit and am waiting at the door when it sounds. The new uniform feels baggy and strangely more comfortable than the tunics of the Complex. The single Command patch even _looks _important, but I feel like an intruder amongst the ranks of Thrace's head men and women. I haven't even been at the rebel base for a day!

My schedule is clear except for an afternoon meeting in some discussion room at 1:00, after lunch, so I figure that gives me some time to wander and explore my new home for who knows how long.

I walk back to the elevator and key in the button for the lobby. Another person joins me on the ascent, going to floor 36 – a young woman with a laundry cart and a Service guild patch, squad-less. She smiles at me when she enters and I nod back. In moments she sees my Command badge and looks up at me with something close to reverence. I'm glad when my floor comes, relieving the silent tension.

The lobby has been transformed from what it was earlier to what looks like a giant picnic, with soldiers lounging around on blankets, eating breakfast and watching a projection of the Hunger Games on the far wall, the guild banners having been moved to appropriate the space for it. The camera pans in on a dark-haired girl, who is kneeling in some underbrush. Next to the live feed is a scoreboard with tributes listed on it, and next to their names a certain amount of money, maybe the average bet for them. Daphnes leads the list with 535; Lloyd is further down with a meager 128, but he's around the middle compared to other tributes. The living tributes' names are shown in green and the two dead tributes in red. They have no numbers by their names.

"Hey! Wu! Over here!" I turn and see Quill, Louis and a few other soldiers waving at me from a little ways away and I pick my way over to them, dodging plates and hands and feet. When I finally reach them Quill nods for me to sit down and I join him.

"Boys, this is Wu. Lookit that, you've hit Command, pops! Congratulations." I shake hands with the other soldiers nearby, whose names aren't offered. They all have pilot's squad patches, but none of them are squad leaders. One of them points a finger at scoreboard.

"Who you got bets on? Usually I try to shift my money around. Obviously I have money on the Careers, but then some of the other ones. Like that Darkness girl, there was this really weird thing that happened and the feed switched to some other tributes, we were kinda bummed. We asked the Tactical guild to hack into Borg's systems, but they're pretty solid and they said they wouldn't get into the system of the leader of the entire freaking _world_ for some Hunger Games footage, ya know? Eh, you can't get everything. Who's yours?"

"Ah…" I say, glancing at the scoreboard. "T-The All-Element tribute." A few of the guys raise their eyebrows, and the soldier looks at me again.

"Which one, the bloke? Yeah, he looks… Interesting, ya know? Honest. It's rare for someone to be honest in the Games. Makes him seem more of a person. We'll see. Oh, _man, _and he had a Career encounter, too! He was hiding 'bout a yard from 'em! Pretty sweet, huh?"

My mouth goes dry and I fumble for a response. Lloyd, a yard from the most dangerous tributes in the Hunger Games? "Did he survive? Hate for my money to go to waste." The joke seems weak, but the soldiers laugh. A fair-haired one claps a hand on my shoulder, hard, and I wince.

"Don't worry, Wu. He's still up and running."

"Shut up, look!"

We all turn to the screen – someone shoves a sandwich in my hands and I mutter a thank-you – and Quill grins. "Check it out, pops, the Careers have found a trail!" Many people cheer and whoop as the Light girl beckons for the others to follow her. The Arena light is dim, like clouds before a thunderstorm, and I wonder how the Careers can find tracks in such low light, but they seem to have no trouble with it, running swiftly and silently over the grassy forest floor, eyes keen and mouths twisted in sick smiles.

"Wonder if they get off it, eh? Y'know, killing the poor kids." The fair-haired soldier says, and Louis shrugs.

"Maybe. Each person down is one down for them – winning and all."

"Shut your hole, Louis, there's some action!" Quill retorts, and Louis rolls his eyes.

"Well, accuse me all you want, Shane started it…" Shane raises his hands in surrender and the other soldiers laugh again. Reluctantly I take a bite of my sandwich and watch the tributes racing across the screen.

Suddenly the camera switches to another tribute, who is rubbing some wood together and striking rocks to make a fire. It's a girl, the Ice girl, and her brows are furrowed in concentration. However smart the Ice tributes may be, they don't usually do well in the Games except by massively outsmarting everyone else. Then, just as suddenly, the Careers are on the screen again, examining a footprint.

"Think the Ice kid is the victim?" A black-haired soldier asks, and no one replies.

Again the Careers take off, and a drumbeat fills the lobby, steadily increasing in volume and speed.

"Aw, stop messin' around!" Quill shouts, and some other soldiers playfully shake their fists at the screen.

"Couldn't help it!" Some guy shouts back over the intercom, and the drum stops.

"Mechanic's guild screwing things up as usual. Go make some tanks or something!"

For all the supposed 'action' of the Careers tracking, they don't seem to make much progress after an hour. I finish my sandwich and having no real reason to stick around I tell Quill I'll be back in a second and he nods, fixated on the Games. Quietly I slip out of the Lobby by elevator and read some of the labels by the floor numbers to see where I should go.

There's the Command floor, of course, and I wonder if Garmadon and I will get an office, but I don't feel like reporting in to my superiors yet, so I press the button for one of the weapons storage floors and ride down a while, longer than I expect. As soon as the lift's doors slide open an armed guard in the same green jumpsuit as mine steps in my way and holds out a hand.

"Stop there, ya need special permission to enter…" I show him my Command patch and his proud expression falls. "I mean, sir. Right this way. You inspectin'?"

"Just passing through. Can you tell me about these bunkers?" The guard seems to ease up as I speak.

"No problem. We've got plenty of off-shooting bunkers and things – this is just one of the lowest floors. There are bomb shelters for the people who live here, in case of invasion by bombing and that stuff. Our weapons and missiles and things, like this missile floor here, they're all on the lowest floors. Our ultra-sensitive stuff is in its own bunker that branches off from the lowest floor. Actually," The guard leans closer to me and raises and eyebrow, "There are rumors of lower floors than one, top-secret stuff. Floor Zero, you get it. But you're in Command, you know all that, eh? Human cloning labs and stuff, eh?"

"Something like that," I mutter, looking around the huger floor. Enormous missiles, stacked like oversized, stubby pencils fill the floor like it's a warehouse, all painted and labeled accordingly. A few other guards wander the aisles made by the missiles, also armed and looking especially menacing, but they see my Command badge and steer clear.

"So what's the firepower of these?" I ask appreciatively, admiring the missiles' sleek design and expert technology.

"Massive, man – I mean, sir. You can't even get in here unless you're a triple, we don't want Singles setting off any chain reaction and blowin' us to kingdom come. Just one of these babies could knock out the Complex. Well, maybe one of the elemental sections, not the whole thing, but you get the picture. Massive." He whistles to add to the image.

Once we finish walking the floor I check my schedule on the wall port and thank the soldier for the tour. "Anytime," He says, shrugging, and I walk out to the elevator and ascend to a training floor for Army, curious about that.

Again, once I step out someone is waiting for me.

"Oi! Whaddaya think you're doin', useless Singles, get out, we're doin' training here and we don't want you in our hair!" A tall ebony-skinned man bends over me, screaming in my face, but I don't back away. His badges read Infantry squad G leader, and his squad members stand behind him, practicing shooting but pausing to watch.

"I'd expect a little more respect from a squad leader, sir." I smile, voice dangerously quiet, and the squad leader steps a half-step back and sees my Command patch. I feel like I'm flaunting my power, and just on my first day, but if I'm ever going to learn how things run around here I'll need to do it soon.

"My apologies, sir. Are you here for a tour or somethin'?" Again, suddenly respectful.

"Will you explain to me the Army squads' training program?" I ask, and he gives me a sharp nod.

"Yes, sir, of course, sir. This is my squad for Infantry, so they're better than the useless Borg-lovin' Singles that're squadless… I mean, they're better than average and tested pro-Infantry. We're just foot soldiers, so we learn basic drills, of course, getting in shape and all that, anyone here can run you a five miles if you asked them, easy… We learn storming buildings, working in joint practices, formations of attack, defending a person or item, the drills really vary, we kind of hafta learn it all."

"I see." My input seems short and to the point. "And what are we practicing now?"

"Target practice, pretty typical, especially when you've got an armed and armored Nindroid pointin' his gun at you, you get the picture, sir. Later today we are going to run an obstacle course." He grins suddenly and the soldiers groan. "The Mechanics guild rigged us up some pretty nice Nindroids to practice with."

"Tasers?" One of the Infantry soldiers asks.

"Of course they have Tasers, how green are you?" The squad leader hollers back, and the other soldiers laugh. "Now back to practicing or Borg'll have our heads!

"If you're wondering, too…" The squad leader continues, then points to a wall, "Those doors lead to the soldiers' barracks, cafeteria, and restrooms. There are four squads per floor, usually, and the schedules are made so two squads are never practicing at the same time. Any kid can come work out here if he wants, though. Mind, the cafeteria is pretty small, so it's not like the ones on the normal floors above."

"That will be all, thank you." I say, and the squad leader simply nods and continues commanding his troops.

The room the squad is drilling in is very large, with a track running around the center and lots of equipment and gear filling the empty floor space, and the space above, too. Sweeping scaffolding reaches high up to the ceiling in one corner, and many ropes dangle in the center space in the middle of the track. On the opposite wall there are a few sets of doors that the squad leader spoke about, but I don't need to go there now.

Once it's about time to head to the meeting I ride up to the Command floor Quill took me up to and walk down the hall. One of the doors crack open and a man pokes his head out and waves me over. Confused, I follow.

"Lost? Oh, you're Command too. Excuse me." After the squad leader's lax language, this conversation makes me feel like I'm talking to royalty.

"Yes… I just arrived at this position and was wondering where the meeting would be, and who would be going, and… Everything, I guess."

The man smiles kindly at me, then runs a hand through his short greyish-blond hair. "We were all like that at the beginning. Hugely overwhelming, isn't it? The meeting is a Command-wide one, most are, but there aren't too many of us so it's not a problem. We can ring up your schedule and see what the room is, too." He walks over to the wall nearby where the small projector is and presses a button on the center of the device. "Schedule for… Sorry, didn't catch your name."

"Wu." I respond, and he repeats it to the projector, which pings agreeably and beams a loading bar.

"Speaking of it, my name's Watson. General Watson that is, or at least one of them. I lead the infantry. What do you do?" In the presence of a general my job seems meager and half-formed.

"I'm supposed to be an advisor, officially, but apparently there are a lot more of them than Thrace needs. Frankly, I don't think he needs me." Watson smiles, but his look is blank. He's always been needed as a leader. But Tactical guild has their fill of advisors, and yet Thrace was insistent on Garmadon and I being his Chief Advisors. How different are we than Thrace's own soldiers, especially ones that have been here more than a day?

"I was about to head to the meeting myself. Have you had lunch?" Watson asks, starting for the door, and I step out to let him through and shake my head.

"Not yet, but it's fine." The projector pings and I look over at it where it shows my schedule – clear but for a meeting at 1:00 in Meeting Room C.

"There are only a few meeting rooms, but they can get jumbled with all of the other things here. It's a lot to keep stored." And now Watson thinks I'm a simple old man, excellent, _just _the impression I wanted to make. The look in his eyes and his manner of speaking confirms it.

We ride the lift down many floors until we come to a stop at what looks like a normal office floor, like the ones in the school back at the Complex. Meeting Room C is the third room to the right. Watson and I enter at five minutes before one, and already many people have congregated.

All of them look important, intelligent, and certainly capable of Command. A wizened, grey-haired old man leans over a sheet of paper covered in numbers and symbols, muttering to himself. A few men group together in small huddles, faces drawn and severe. Watson is called over by one man and he joins their group, smiling easily. Obviously, he's with people he knows. Am I really meant for this?

The table in the middle of the room is very long, made of dark, smooth wood, with one chair at the head and none at the foot, and many chairs line the sides. Small placards on the chair backs show who sits where. I'm near the head of the table next to Garmadon and another General. My brother is near the end of the room looking a bit lost, having not seen me yet, and I think it inappropriate to wave and call his name out. Soon, though, he makes his way to his chair and greets me quietly.

"How has your day been?" He asks, glancing around at the important figures around us.

"Enlightening. Still trying to get a hang of how the base works." I reply, and he nods.

"Likewise. It's amazing, really, how it's all put together." Then he lowers his voice and leans in. "They all look so professional. Where do we fit in?"

"I just hope we're not called out."

At long last, Thrace walks in, and the sound in the room is extinguished like a damper. The rebel leader walks up to his chair at the head of the table and gestures for us all to sit. The General next to me, a broad-shouldered, beefy man gives Thrace a snappy salute before he takes his seat, but when I look around no one else has, so I don't copy. Once we're all properly seated and ready Thrace looks over the table, examining us with his dark, eyes, then begins to speak.

"I summoned this council for a very important reason. You must be wondering why." His voice is deep and brooding. Murmurs fill the room, discontented ones, and many glance to others and look confused. Well, at least I'm not the only one.

"The rebels – this whole act – has been an undeniable success. Undeniable. Who else has achieved what we have? Who else has put together an army? Who else has trained soldiers, appointed generals and tacticians, and revolutionized technology? Not only Borg, my comrades. We have!" A muffled 'hear hear!' issues from the lower table.

"And still you have been summoned. This is a meeting of monumental importance. But who am I to tell you what you already know? Would it not be monumental if I had not said so? No, my comrades. You know full well the importance of this meeting since it appeared on your schedule."

"Now?" A croaky old man leans forward to see Thrace, heavily veined hands clasped in worry. "But every statistic we have…" He is drowned out by the shouts of the other delegates.

"Impossible!"

"This is madness, Thrace, and you know it!"

"It simply cannot happen!"

The rebel leader watches almost peacefully as his committee argues and shouts for his attention, then the noise dies down and he gazes at them with a steady eye.

"Every single one of our operatives knows about this plan." _And one exception,_ I think, completely bemused. What is going on? I seem to be confused far too often for my liking.

"We have planned this for at least a decade. We have selected, measured, and estimated. _We will execute this plan!" _His voice rumbles with power and passion, and some of the council members shift in their seats. One even goes so far as to raise a hand.

"Yes?" Thrace asks, as if we are in school and he is our instructor.

"Excuse my asking, sir, but why now? The odds are, frankly, stacked against us. The Games have gone on for two days! I know the plan is an extended one, but how can we be sure this is the right time? Don't we need… A spark?"

Every nerve in my body tingles as his words. A spark. They need to incite something, but _what?_ What is this plan? The feeling of cluelessness is bitter and awkward. Thrace nods at the man who spoke and then addresses the council.

"There will be an act of rebellion. We even know the one who will cause it. Am I right, Johnson?" A man near the end of the table leans out to see the rebel leader.

"Well, we can't be for certain, and there are always complications, seeing as we have no power there… But evidence suggests that we will have our act." Garmadon leans over to me and whispers, "Johnson, head of Psychology." I tilt my head and examine the council with more interest. Is everyone here except for me some kind of genius?

"You say we have the odds stacked against us. Have we ever been on even ground? Do you expect to have a fair fight with Borg? Even teams? If we wait until we are even with Borg we will be skeletons in our chairs, gentlemen. The time to act is now."

"But how?" Someone shouts a few chairs down from me. "We can't just hop in and say, oh, pardon me, I was just –"

"How. Thank you, Slovak, a perfect opportunity. I'm afraid I can't show the rebel public our plan until the act of inciting has occurred, and then they'll have their doubts already, won't they? And we can't show the Complex until our team is assembled."

"And then there's that!" A cry echoes through the room. "How do we know they won't be damaged, dead? That they'll work together? That they'll want to help us?"

"I have my doubts, too. But they are our only hope."

"We're putting our entire rebel act in the hands of schoolchildren! How can we know they will be what we need? They're young, easily molded, easily fooled…"

Now there's kids involved? My head seems to be spinning with all of the new information.

"Then we will fool them! Do you know anyone who can do what they can?"

Who? Schoolchildren? The painful memory of Lloyd edges at my mind, but I shove it away. No time for that now.

"We have to admit our inferiority. Although we may be older, wiser, and stronger, we are nonetheless helpless before them. Do you understand? They possess power you and I could not even imagine. Do you see?"

"If we are powerless before them, so Borg will be also." The general next to me mutters, and Thrace nods at him, eyes darker than midnight.

"We need the spark, gentlemen. And we will have to wait for it. I am willing to wait for this. Will you join me?"

"To the end of the world, Thrace." Is the reply.

**Knew you would be confused, right? **

**So there's a plan and a thing and someone will do another thing and things will happen! (accurate representation)**

**But everything will make sense eventually.**

**Next update should - ****_should - _****be Saturday, if all goes well, which it should. **

**And now for our evening announcements:**

**Post who you think will win the Games on my poll! In the words of Shia LaBeouf, "JUST DO IT!"**

**Thanks and all that for reading, and not quitting after this chapter because it's a pile of random crap you don't get! **

**I think that's all. Until next time!**


	32. Chapter 32

**I really don't know what to say that you haven't heard already... **

***makes some joke about being on time***

**But I've already said that, haven't I?**

**Meh.**

**But hey, I do like this chapter, so enjoy!**

**(Do I say 'so enjoy' a lot? Have I ever?)**

Chapter Thirty Three – Kai

I'm awake even before the cannon, which sounds at the first second of dawn, like a warped and twisted version of an alarm clock. The noise sends a jolt of lightning through me and I instantly glance to the sky, ever the mundane shade of grey. Aren't the people of the audience bored of the washed-out Arena by now? I haven't seen too much action yet, and that worries me. Everyone has something happen to them eventually… And so far, the Gamemakers have shown me uncanny grace – uncanny for them, at least.

I'm tempted to journey to the mountains, to try my luck there, but from what I've seen of them they look no more hospitable than the forest. As I get nearer to the sky-scraping peaks the ground of the forest becomes more and more uneven, with huge rocks randomly jutting out of the ground like ancient ruins. For fun sometimes I'll climb to the top of them and imagine I'm not in the Games, just a guy wandering the forest alone, not in danger of imminent death or anything. For fun. There is no fun here, there is only the Hunger Games. That's just how it is.

Nonetheless, I've learned some of the tricks that the Gamemakers use. Some of them have been Gamemakers for so long designing Arenas is like second nature to them, carbon-copying parts from other Games and placing them in this one. To someone that is looking, the traps are pretty obvious and can be easily avoided. Even so, sometimes I'm surprised by some of the cleverer plays of the Gamemakers. Once I found myself inches from a swath of quicksand on a riverbank, and wading through a river of carnivorous fish. Hopefully those minor events, the ones I don't really count as action, will keep the Gamemakers off my trail. Then again, I don't think they count as worthy-enough occurrences to merit a reprieve.

The cannon has probably woken the other tributes, too, if they're not already awake, and a new day of the Games has begun. Stiffly I stand and examine the area around me, clear of any danger so far as I can see, looking like the pristine forest that surrounds Borg's territory. Clear of danger, except for the pressure plates thirty yards to my left that disperse poisonous gas, except for the trapdoor behind me that could easily send up horrid creatures of Borg's own invention to tear me to shreds, except for the entire Arena itself. All the jokes about the Games, even the facts, the traded secrets, none can amount to the sheer danger of the event. When I get back to the Complex, if I do, I'll make a killing off of trade secrets in the Games.

My pack is now stuffed with food and more of the confusing coded leaves and things, which I have spent every spare minute I have pouring over, even falling asleep some nights with leaves in my hands, waking up with them crushed in my fists. The aggravating thing is that I know I can break it, I can break the code. This is my skill. The Gamemakers should know this, though, Borg should know this. He didn't have cameras in the hub, but he surely had agents. Someone as wickedly intelligent and careful as Borg would have researched his tributes, found their strengths. But a cipher? There was no need. It could be a distraction, a trap, but deep down I know it's not. I can solve this code, and I have yet to do so, but I will.

I limp forward a few steps, not from any particular injury but from general soreness and exhaustion. I've been running at least five miles every day now, distancing myself from the Cornucopia and the other tributes. Despite how far away I am from the center of the Arena, the traps seem to only multiply. It rained again while I slept – the ground is muddy and damp, perfect for tracking, but doing no wonders for my perpetually wet clothing. Being dry is a somewhat-distant memory now.

I go back to my tree and pull down my pack, which seems to become heavier every day, and not just because of the code message bits I've been picking up. My switchblade is tied at my belt for safekeeping, having seen no use yet, and although I have no desire at all to use it, it is a nice knife, and meant for something. The Gamemakers surely will put my weapons to good use sooner or later. I open the zipper pouch where I keep my food, which has dwindled from a healthy supply to a measly few nuts and wilted stems of a plant I don't even recognize anymore. Halfheartedly I shoulder the pack, staggering slightly under its weight, and set out to go find some food.

If the traps have increased as I travel further from the Cornucopia, it seems that the food has decreased too. At the end of a tiresome and frustrating hour I've only been able to collect some kind of mudroot, dug out from the bank of a stream, hopefully edible, and a few berries of questionable origin. Although I'm disappointed with the lack of food, it's obviously a way to steer the tributes back towards the Cornucopia, back to the Careers. Survival may be harder out here. Better get started.

I readjust my pack and set out at a fast jog away from the Cornucopia, in the general direction I've been running all this while. The Gamemakers will be able to track my obvious path with ease, and so far I haven't done anything unprecedented – a calculated plan. So far I may just look like a scared kid going as fast as he can away from the Cornucopia, not dawdling anywhere for too long, just moving along. Lots of tributes have done this in the past, many in my time, too. So far I'm simply fitting molds that the Gamemakers want me in, keep them off my trail. To keep my mind off of things I pull out one of the withered leaves and chew on it until it forms a tasteless pulp in my mouth, which I stiffly swallow, then grab another and chew it again, until all of the leaves are gone. Hopefully it will tide me over until later in the afternoon, the next time I eat.

After an hour, maybe two, the strain of my run hits and I slow to a much slower pace, feeling the burn in my muscles and the sting of sweat, despite the chill of the day. Since the beginning of the Games the temperature has stayed much too low for comfort, definitely too cold for my sodden jacket to protect me from. The largest items I've successfully been able to dry are my socks, which soon become wet anyways because of the dampness of my shoes, which almost definitely leak. Or maybe I just walk through streams too much.

Throughout the day I can hear snippets of noise from other places in the Arena, far away and behind me. Yesterday, for a few minutes straight, was some sort of animal roaring and a bunch of trees falling. Then there was an enormous supercell-type thing over an area closer to the Cornucopia, with huge winds and midnight-black clouds. After that was an explosion that nearly knocked me down from a tree I was camping in, and a second earthquake that followed the explosion, almost as powerful as the first one. Certainly keeping us busy, I think, and slow down to a walk, boots silent on the forest floor. Stealth has almost become second nature now – walking lightly and quietly, leaving no trace, traveling upstream when possible, staying under the radar. My eyes flick nervously from tree to tree and my hand unconsciously moves to my blade. In this instant I become part of the forest – silent, unmoving, and unnoticeable.

I continue though, a bit unnerved, lightly jogging for another half mile until I reach a small stream and rest for a moment, sitting down on a rock and pulling out the leaves in my pack, scrutinizing them and facing the same blankness as always. Even as I stare at the now-familiar patterns on the leaf, I know that I won't find anything. Back in the hub I'd met challenging codes, especially from the upper traders, but nothing I couldn't puzzle out eventually. And now, presented with this… I turn the leaf over in my hand, resisting the urge to crush it in my palm. How could something so small be so infuriating?

My resting time has passed, though, and I stand, stretching painfully and shoving the leaf back into my bag with no particular caution, hoping that it falls out or bends so I won't have to worry about it again. Watching out for the video cameras behind me and the cage pit cleverly disguised a few paces away, I cross the stream and continue on, letting the water wash over my pants and fill my boots, which now rub at my feet painfully and are cracking at the toes. I can fix them up later, but right now I have to keep going. I'm surely further from the Cornucopia than any other tributes now, but if I'm approaching the boundary lack of food and more traps is worth it.

The boundary of the Arena has always been a debated mystery between both traders and civilians, though perhaps the civilians don't care as much as the traders do. Past victors has been questioned, security has been hacked, but still no one really knows. Most tributes don't make it this far, and I can see why. Without trading knowledge most would already be dead by now, and the survivors having lived by sheer luck. All victors have won with some luck, though. We all could use it.

As the day wears by I count four explosions, all faint, one strange mechanical whirring sound quite close to me, a mild earthquake, two trails of smoke rising into the sky, and not another tribute cannon since the morning. Must be compensating for those too far to access…Or who they don't want to challenge. Maybe the reason I haven't been attacked yet is because I can find their traps and can see their attacks coming, but Borg still hasn't made a real move on me yet, and the citizens may think he's being soft.

I feel like I'm running on an endless loop, with unremarkable trees, rivers, and ever-increasing amount of traps I now have to devote my constant attention to – dodging toxin dispensers, pit traps, and some weird sort of bush that keeps popping up that seems to be animated, with dangerous thorn-like leaves sharpened to a deadly point. I glance up to check the time and see that the sky has darkened considerably, by storm or nighttime I can't tell, nor do I care. The decreased light makes it harder to see, though, and with the deadly devices set every other foot or so apart I don't want to risk it. I walk until I nearly fall into an almost invisible tiger pit trap and decide it's time to stop. Finding a spot under the trees that seems safe enough and settle down, laying my pack by my side and taking out another leaf, squinting to see in the twilight, jumbled bits of code swirling around in my mind. The Borg's anthem sounds loudly and I start, dropping the leaf and glancing at the sky, reviled by the brilliant "BE" shining amongst the stars. As a jibe I spit to the side. Am I rebellious enough now? Will Borg send out his minions to tear me apart?

Next are the fallen, and I'm surprised to see the face of my element-mate, Stirling, smiling from the heavens. It's strange knowing that she's gone, even though I didn't know her at all. The last Fire tribute in the Arena. No one else died today, and Stirling's face winks out, fading back into the dark sky. That could have been Nya there, her face shining in the atmosphere while I would watch at home, bitter and alone. Suddenly I stand and grab a fallen branch by my campsite and quickly set it on fire, casting a warm yellow light over the nearby ground. As a tribute for you, Stirling, I think, and to Nya as well.

I grab my pack and begin to run again, despite the cold and the darkness and the traps, holding my smoking torch ahead of me, running for the edge of the Arena. I don't know how long I continue on, maybe an hour, until, I halt at a clearing and catch my breath. A sudden light startles me and I look to the sky, where, through a chink in the impenetrable clouds, a single beam of sunlight shines down and turns the grass at my feet a shining gold.

When I look up again I see it, at first what looks like a mirage, but too perfect, too small. A square of the air high above me shimmers in the light, moving like ripples of water, about the size of my hand. A forcefield… I laugh out loud, quietly at first, then double over, gasping for air. After all this time I've found it! I set my pack down and pick up a rock, then toss it at the square, the flaw in the armor, where it passes through, vanishing. For the next few minutes I throw things at the square, laughing in a half-insane way. Finally I brush the grass and dirt off of my pants and walk towards the forcefield, completely invisible yet still there… And I extend a hand.

It takes only a few steps before I feel the forcefield touch my fingertips, then heat racing from my hand through my body, starting with a soft tingling and growing to a burning, stinging warmth. My eyes widen as I try to pull away, but my body is immobile. The heat grows to fierce fire and I gasp, still trying to move… Then a beautiful, horrible light sears my eyes and I'm blinded, falling to the ground, the ground that I never seem to reach…

**Because the first thing you're going to do when you see a forcefield is touch it - nice move, Kai.**

***indignant shouts***

**So, news... Do we even have news? **

**I do, sort of, nothing story-related - I'm going to the Zelda symphony orchestra production in a week! *fangirls violently* So maybe I might get inspired to write something... :)**

**I think that's all for today! C ya l8r**

**(How short/lame was that?)**

**(And you should also review/put in your poll opinions because reasons!?**

**(Jk because I'll love you forever... Ok maybe not, but why don't you?)**

**(I should parodize the 'in the arms of angels' SPCA ads...)**

**(Fanfiction writers all over the world are neglected by their readers every day. In only two seconds ****_you _****could impact someone's life. Write a poll or review!)**

**(Not bad, eh? Okay, I'm really done now. Bye!)**


	33. Chapter 33

**Apparently this is the ****_real _****Chapter 32... Mea culpa.**

**And I owe you all an apology - it's been way too long since I last updated. My schedule has been hectic ****_but it's no excuse! _****Am I a terrible person? :(**

**So, sorry about that one. But I'll post two chapters today to make up for it! **

Chapter Thirty Two – Ming

I gaze up at the unrelenting storm clouds that hover over the Arena, dark and foreboding, plunging me into semidarkness. The tree branch I cling to shudders in the swift wind and I grip it tighter, wincing as the bark rubs against the scrapes on my hands. You could always heal them, a voice whispers in my head, but I shake it off. I'm already tired as is, and casting takes energy. A plummet from this height would certainly be fatal.

Even though the clouds are thick and dark, no lightning flashes in them, so I expect we'll just have rain again. I sigh and feel the material of my finally-dry jacket. The Gamemakers have kept the skies dark and the wind high since a few days ago, and it's getting tiresome, watching the same cement-like sky every time I look up. One bonus to the weather, though, is that smoke is difficult to see and the wind dispels it quickly. If the Careers are looking for campfires they'll have a tough time doing so. The only trail of smoke I've seen during my lookout times was once a few days ago – a wisp of light smoke, and then it was gone. Maybe it was some sort of forest mirage, but any tributes with brains would be using the weather to their benefit. At least, I have.

I climb down the tree carefully, waving my way between branches and clusters of leaves, until I reach the ground and examine my time-telling device I made, from a lesson in the Training Center. The timestick's shadow is almost at the second mark I've cut into the dirt. Two o'clock. Every so often I'll go up in a tree to examine my surroundings, but they all seem mundanely similar. Aren't the citizens bored? Maybe I haven't been near the action, but so far this Hunger Games has been relatively calm compared to the rest of the ones I've seen.

A soft thud echoes from behind me and I yank the timestick out of the ground and pivot, hand outstretched, ready to attack, but see nothing. Again the booming sound reaches my ears, and again, each time growing slightly louder. With a gasp I make a frantic leap for the tree and scramble up carelessly, reopening the cuts in my hands and smearing blood on the branches. Fine, let the Careers find me. I can take them.

When I reach the top of the tree again I see the trees a short distance away bending and shaking wildly, like something huge is walking through them. A creaking moan signals the fall of one of the trees, and I see it tumble into the forest canopy. Is it some monster of the Games? I know I should run, but I'm transfixed, watching the treetops quiver as the beast grows nearer, heading straight in my direction. Straight towards me.

Terror strikes and I again climb down the tree, cursing my luck, and I run in the opposite direction, sprinting through the column-like tree trunks. The thuds have now become obvious footprint sounds, and when I spare a glance over my shoulder a bestial roar echoes through the Arena, setting my hair on end. While I'm looking away I stumble on a rock and barely manage to catch myself, my handprint leaving an obvious mark of blood. Nothing for the Careers to track you with! I think, and pull my jacket sleeves over my hands and clench them tightly, sweat mingling with the blood and stinging the wounds.

Even as I fight for ground, the whatever-it-is behind me approaches rapidly, its thrumming footsteps shaking the Arena floor and occasionally giving its electrifying roar. It's evident I can't outrun it, so I return to my failsafe – climb a tree. My hands burn as I ascend and I bite my lip, pushing down the pain. I can treat my injuries later. Some tributes probably have it worse than I do. The tree I climb is a good one, with long, drooping branches and a tall trunk. Once I reach a good position I swing around onto a branch and sit, feet dangling, waiting for my pursuer to unveil itself.

What emerges from the trees is nothing short of nightmare. From my perch it looks vaguely like a lizard, but where scales would be protrude blades forming plates of armor across its back, bristling and undulating with every motion. The blades look razor-sharp, and it's a wonder the monster hasn't injured itself yet. Wherever its enormous clawed feet touch the dirt is gouged inches deep with thick, sharp strokes. Each nearby tree is sliced and scarred by the blades coming from the beast. Again the creature utters its cry and I shudder on my branch. Its darting red eyes are mad with fury and pain. For an instant I feel a flicker of pity for the beat, for what Borg has put it though – then realize it's most likely about to kill me and all emotion is wiped away.

I remain as still as I can on my trembling branch, which shudders each time the beast takes its thundering steps, blades spiked along its back inches from my tree, which would be shorn down in an instant if it came too close. Even so, the monster makes a clumsy half-turn and lumbers towards me. My breath catches in my throat, a half-cry, but I clutch the branch tightly and stay immobile. The ground shudders and trees moan and fall as the monster comes closer. Red eyes bore into mine, mine full of fear, its own full of hatred. It's my fault the creature is in the Arena/. Without me there would be no need for the it to be tortured like this. Again, the pity for the monster keeps me in my place, even as its curved claws carve gashes into the roots of my tree. The drooping branches brush against the blades atop the beast's head and are quickly cut down, sliced through when the monster moves again. That could be the tree next. That could be me.

The monster's hideous maw reaches up and sniffs, then it throws back its head and screams in triumph. I jump to my feet and stand on my branch, watching it chop down more of the drooping branches as it stumbles back onto all fours. My stomach drops as it makes a sudden leap, claws digging into the trunk of the tree, cutting down the neighboring trees, and it swipes with a claw and my tree trunk is cut into two like scissors and paper. For one horrifying moment the tree remains as it was, just standing there, then the top half – the half I stand on – leans back ever-so-slowly and tumbles to the ground. Timber.

I'm weightless, falling through the open air, then I snag a branch and tuck into a ball, hoping it will ease my fall. The falling trees nearby fill my ears with deep thuds and the swishing of branches. Every second I wait for impact. Any second now. Any second now…

I land squarely on my back, and every wisp of breath I have is knocked out of me. My arms and legs go numb while my vision grows fuzzy, and I gasp loudly for breath. Momentarily paralyzed, I can only watch as the blade-creature crawls over the wreckage of the tree, making strange harrumphing noises and it steps over the branches, turning enormous boughs into sawdust. Frantically I try to push myself away, but my movements are weakened and I can only push myself a few feet backwards. With a frenzied cry the monster rears up again and swipes at the shattered tree remains to my left, smashing them to bits. I dig the heels of my boots into the ground and push harder, fighting for ground. The clawed hand raises and smashes down again, this time to my right. It's no mistake now – Borg's maniacal creation is aiming for me. A flash of red and I know its eyes are on me. There will be no more misses.

Perhaps it's the sheer danger of the situation, because suddenly I'm up and running again, sprinting for the nearest tree, feeling the numbness of my limbs melt away like water. The creature screams again, but I don't falter, catching hold of a branch and swinging up onto it, working my way to the other side of the tree. Once the beast realizes where I am it throws itself at the tree, smashing it flat, but I'm no longer there, already having moved to the next tree in the clearing. Then slowly, miraculously, a wisp of a plan forms in my head. I can do this. I can beat Borg this time.

The blades of the beast are laid on top of each other, like shingles, and when it arches its back or moves downward the blades rise, exposing the leathery skin underneath, barely and only for a second. I need to get behind it and aim some magic at it from there – obviously any of my improvised weapons will be useless. So far, the beast has no idea of what I am doing. Even if I have already left a tree it charges for it and demolishes it. There's a problem – what happens when I come full circle? The clearing the creature has made is a large one, though, and until the problem presents itself I shouldn't worry about it.

I nearly topple from the next tree I jump to, my hands already slick with blood and sweat, barely managing to grasp the bough at the last second before I would have fallen. I'm nearly at the monster's back, and it's just picking itself up from the last tree it crushed. Wood shavings and twigs stick from the ends of the blades and chinks in the creature's armor, and its eyes have gone from fiery anger to roiling lava, hatred. Now is my chance. As the beast rears up to smash the next tree I see the blades shift along its back, revealing the weathered skin underneath, and I aim my spell carefully at the revealed spots, whisper the incantation, and wait.

The effect is not sudden. A wisp of curling purple smoke threads from my hand to the monster, weaving through the blades and seeping into its body. Red eyes snap to mine as the beast turns, gouging the land around it, and faces me, and I feel the full hatred of its stare. Then the creature shudders, its blades clanking together, and one of its knees gives, then the next, like it's kneeling to me, bowing, accepting defeat. No. This was not a show of dominance, but survival! Trembling to stay upright, the sides of the creature heave and its eyes dim, no longer malicious, no longer intelligent, no longer alive. The body shudders and collapses, implodes, until all that's left are the long, deadly blades.

Carefully I slide from the tree and work my way through the decimated forest to the corpse of Borg's beast, fighting pain and exhaustion and, oddly, tears. I didn't want to harm it! Why did it come to seek me out? Feet dragging, I reach the collapsed body and look for a small blade that I can use as a weapon. Near the legs of the dead creature I find some suitable ones, even with helpful grips where they attached to the inner workings of the beast. The grips are hard and not shaped well, though, so I assume they are not for – or at least, were not made for – tributes to use as weapons. Even so, they'll be handy, so I tuck two into my belt, careful of the sharp edges. Then I turn my back on the demolished clearing and jog away, anxious to escape the fateful scene.

I walk and walk until it gets so dark I can't see, unconscious to hunger and thirst and the pain of my untreated wounds, only stopping when I wander knee-deep into a gurgling creek where I make my camp. I wash off my hands and use fabric from my shirt to bind them, blotting blood from the palms and fingers, and make sure I'm not seriously injured from the fall from the tree. My back is bruised but not broken, and I feel fine otherwise. After drinking some of the creek water and eat some of the fish I had collected a while back, chewing mechanically and unthinkingly. It takes an enormous amount of effort to clean up my supplies and crawl into a sheltered spot in the underbrush to sleep, as I'm not risking climbing another tree. "I never want to see another tree again." I murmur, and in moments I'm sounds asleep.

**And for that one guest review that asked how the rebels trace the Games signal... Here goes.**

**Okay, this will be long, but who cares? So, we're assuming that the signal is satellite, because there's not going to be cable at the rebel base. Actually, with the right tools it's incredibly easy to hack into signals with the right tools - a guy in Spain did it for only $75. The real key is that the signal would be unencrypted, which Borg's would be, since who would even be trying to get a TV channel anyways? Or so he thinks... Scrambling the signal also makes it harder to share data across countries, or at least large areas, and that's how Borg would control his Nindroids, or at least keep them up-to-date on the Games or to show them something that needed to be fixed later, so scrambling would be out of the question. Satellite hacking can even get access to video footage from drones, which is another asset the rebels could use to watch the movements of Borg's army - it's not just for entertainment. **

**There you have it! The method behind the madness. And stick around for the next chapter, too!**

**See you soon!**


	34. Chapter 34

**Back for more, are you? This chapter is pretty long, so I hope it's good penance XD**

Chapter Thirty Five – Wu

A few days into total rebel lifestyle, I'm starting to get the hang of it. There is a cafeteria on just about every floor in the middle, where I eat, usually with Garmadon or the pilots, then off to daily meetings on random floors and rooms. After breakfast I pull up my schedule on the wall port to find out which one. Meetings can last from a few minutes, just to check up on a project, or hours used organize strategic attacks on Borg Tower. In these meetings I truly learn to appreciate the prowess of the operatives on Thrace's panel, calculating in moments, foreseeing attacks, weaving plans and strategies together fluidly. Surprisingly, Garmadon and I contribute, often enough and well enough that we've gained the respect of the panel members. Watson the general no longer sees me as senile – although I'm afraid some of Thrace's other men are on the verge of it.

Today's meeting is on floor 38, in an ordinary office room that has been cleared for our purposes. I walk with Garmadon, Eli, a young chemist who I befriended a few days in, and Scourge, a hard-faced representative of the Mechanic's guild.

"The lab discovered a new bit of information today, about the Nindroids." Eli says in a hushed tone, smiling. "Apparently they don't have a hive-mind sort of deal, that they actually can think for themselves, but all follow Borg's command. We can't figure out if that's coding or what, the Tactical guild and some others are on it now." Science and chemistry are Mechanic's guild expertise, and Eli is certainly an expert.

"That could be code. It's Borg. Who knows." Scourge intones, speaking in his usual blunt manner. Garmadon just shrugs and steps ahead to open the doors to the meeting room and we go inside and take our seats, which I have now memorized. The room is plain, lit with white stark lighting, and empty except for our table, chairs and a projection of the Hunger Games beaming on the closest wall, but few are watching. The camera swivels over the prone body of a tribute, strangely blackened with soot, bent at an odd and painful-looking angle. I feel the lurch in my stomach associated to fear that it's Lloyd lying there, like I always feel when I see the Games, but the tribute is taller than my nephew. Garmadon looks fixedly at the opposite wall, and I can almost feel the fierceness and fear radiating off of him. Maybe they will explain everything today. Make it all make sense.

Thrace is already in the room, so he walks to his chair without a flourishing entrance and takes his seat, avoiding the projection. I see a few people wince when they see the kid on screen, but most are blank-faced, pitiless. Good for commanders, bad for parents, I guess.

"Welcome, all. I showed you this Games feed for a reason."

"Yeah, that our psychological act of rebellion is going to die. Plan B, Johnson?" Someone down near the end of the table speaks up, voice smug and taunting.

"Enough." Thrace growls, and a few delegates shrink back a little in their chairs. His power over us is incredible, not because of its amount, but because of how easily he leads us. Even Garmadon, not easily persuaded, has learned to trust Thrace. Who knows what will happen next? Borg will surrender at the rebel doorstep? Skye will strange a Nindroid?

Lloyd will win the Hunger Games?

No. Don't think like that.

"You think this cripples our vessel of rebellion, so to speak?" There's a challenge in Thrace's tone, and the same taunting voice retaliates.

"I'd say so. Have we got a diagnostic on his injuries?"

Tami, the leading medical person on Thrace's board, stands. "If I may, sir?" She asks politely, adjusting her clipboard, and Thrace nods.

"So far, it's hard to say. We've had no real medical tests with forcefields and thus cannot determine anything conclusive, and oddly," she smirks a little, "No one has agreed to help us for testing. Perhaps we should have offered it before the tribute's contact with the device."

"Yeah, none of us want to be catapulted halfway across the Arena, thanks!" Whoever is talking at the end of the table must be purposefully inflammatory, because his snide remarks seem excessive.

"Indeed, the trajectory was fascinating."

"Fascinating? You machine, that's a human being!" A new voice joins the argument, and Tami flushes angrily.

"I was never indicating…"

"Oh, sure…"

"Enough!" Thrace bellows, and the panel is silent instantly. "Will we be bickering while Borg butchers our children? Destroys our base? Leaves us helpless and ashamed? Silence! Speak, Tami, and Eli, if you would."

My new friend gulps and stands, nervously interlacing his fingers. "We – I-I mean the Mechanic's guild, we're trying to find out what happened during the explosion. It was an Arena-wide event, and suddenly the tribute was hurled away -"

"Hurled a couple miles, mind!"

"Exactly. We… Don't have an explanation. And he should be dead, by all means, but he's not. So…" Eli lets out a short breath and holds out his hands. "New science. We're trying to replicate a forcefield in Mechanic's, some of the refugees worked in the factory where they made some and are good help. But… yeah." He end, somewhat lamely, and sits down. Tami takes this as a signal for her to speak.

"Like Eli said, he was thrown a long way and… really should be dead."

"Borg saving his good-for-nothing behind, eh?"

"That good-for-nothing Borg lover'll save your lousy butt, ya Single!" The rebels don't usually use slang around Thrace, so I'm surprised at their talk, but if he's bothered by it, he gives no indication. A steady flare of anger burns in the rebel leader's dark eyes, though, and I look away, feeling uncomfortable.

"Like I said," Tami says pointedly, glaring at the outspoken rebels, "He should be dead. We don't know if Borg is preserving him – Perhaps he sees the same skills in the boy that we see."

"No, no, no…" One of the older, more respectable men groans, putting his head in his hands. "What would happen if Borg used him? The kid's a loose cannon."

"That's what we're betting on."

The Hunger Games feed has switched during the conversation, and now the Darkness girl is climbing down from a tree, hands wrapped in bandages stained with blood. I tear my eyes away and look back to Thrace.

"Do you think? Is Borg trying to keep our guy alive?" An ordinary-looking man asks, sitting across the table from me, and Thrace glances at a few people and they stand as if on cue.

"We have evidence to suggest against it, and evidence to say… Yes."

"Yes and no." One of the standing men adds.

"Helpful…" Someone mutters.

"This is an obvious event that suggests Borg is hoping to use the tribute when he is a victor, for the same reasons we do."

"How could he know about the elements?"

"Not in that way, the appeal to the people trader-secrets thing." The man finishes, then sits down, along with his companions.

"Is it possible that Borg knows about the elemental side to our plan?" A small, willowy woman asks from the end of the table, wringing her hands nervously.

"There is always the possibility…" Replies a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair, Liam from Tactical, and he sighs. "For now we have to hope, and believe, that he doesn't."

"So Thrace… What do we do?" A young guy next to Liam speaks up, voice quietly submissive, eyes full of fear.

"What do we do, my friends?" Thrace asks, standing and surveying the gathered men and women. "We will follow our plan. Nothing else has come up besides what we have discussed?"

This time a much older man stands, holding himself with dignity and power. I recognize him, too, a certain Mister Williams, famous even amongst the newest rebels as one of the highest-ranking men in the base. He straightens his jumpsuit as if it is an expensive and fashionable tuxedo, then meets Thrace's gaze, which is still a bit angry from before, and begins to speak.

"So far, I'd say no. Things are still going according to plan, roughly. The tribute is not dead, the rebellious act has yet to happen, like it was a day ago. This is only a minor inconvenience."

"Minor? We're hoping he didn't break every bone in his Borg-loving body, we'll see how good of an act of rebellion he can make then!" I glare down at the insolent rebel who keeps speaking out, but he's blocked by other panel members, a few muttering discontentedly.

"We have our full faith in this boy, like it or not! I've found my place with that, soldier. Find yours! You are dismissed from Command. Please report to a Service guild squad leader to be assigned to your new guild." Each syllable of Thrace's words tremble with barely concealed rage, and the man stands quickly, flushed with anger and humiliation, then walks out of the room without another comment.

"Such action will result in what you have just seen. Be forewarned." The rebel leader's eyes flash with anger again. "Do you understand this? Without these tributes we cannot survive. Do your calculations, estimate, assume, predict all you want, you know it's true. And that is why we are here. We need these tributes, for the sake of every citizen still alive today. Each child, each mother, each father, they all need these tributes. And it is our job to fulfill that request. Cynicism, a lack of faith, those we can leave for Borg. But from this point on, I need your doubts to be voiced, but not answered to. I need your questions to be told, but not become consuming. Do not fall into the void of disbelief and hesitation – it's harder to hang on, but worth it.

"So what do we do? The show must go on. Intervention is not required yet. The Hunger Games will continue as usual."

"But… But what if the tribute kid dies? Where will our act of rebellion be?" The man next to Liam says anxiously.

"For now, let us only look to what we can control – the present. You are dismissed." Thrace gives the delegates a final scorching look and stalks out of the room, hands clasped behind his back.

"What was that all about?" Eli chatters as we exit the meeting room and pull up directions to the cafeteria on the wall port. "Did you see the poor guy's face when he had to leave?"

"I'm glad he did." Scourge rumbles, looking dark. "Nuisance, trying to cause trouble."

"He has some fair points, though…" Eli protests, but not seeking an argument, starts to walk down the hall, where a few other panel members stand or pace back and forth, all with solemn expressions.

The floor is mostly comprised of Tactical men and women, so we get lots of odd looks when we walk into the cafeteria and get our meals from the Service worker behind the counter. Rebel food is very neutral – not good, not bad, just… There. Today's entrée is a watery stew with a thinly cut slice of bread on the side, and water. Having recently come from relatively comfortable Complex life, my stomach growls painfully as I look at my unfulfilling meal, but Eli and Scourge don't seem to mind the rationed portions. We take a table that is empty and begin to eat, while Garmadon talks about the meeting.

"So the tribute kid onscreen is going to cause some kind of rebellion."

Eli perks up at this, raising his head from his bowl and nodding eagerly. "Yeah, really cool stuff there too, how they figured it out. It's not just psychology, y'know? There's math and science and behavioral habits and things, they even pulled some traders into the mix to analyze the data."

"Thrace is making sure there's no mistake to be made," I add, dipping my bread in my stew.

"Well, yeah! This is the plan to overthrow Borg Enterprises! Of course he wants it foolproof!" A few Tactical soldiers look over when they hear Eli's raised voice and he shrinks back a little, quiet for the rest of the meal.

After lunch Eli has to report to the lab and Scourge has somewhere to be, so we part ways, Garmadon and I going to the lobby to watch more of the Games. When we don't go to watch training we meet up with the pilots when they're free and picnic in the Lobby. When we reach the floor the sound of voices floods through the lift's doors, drawing me out and into the immense space.

I don't see the pilots or any of my acquaintances, so I take a seat near the edge of the pack by a Service guild man, with Garmadon beside me, and look up at the projection. Lloyd's bet has shrunk to 63 since the first day, and now there is a new name in red – Stirling. "The Fire girl." Garmadon whispers to me, and I nod. On screen, the Ice boy clings to a protruding rock, hands chalky white and eyes wide with fear, struggling to find a foot grip. "Impressive. He knows to use chalk for grip." Someone in front of me says, and a few others nod their agreement. The boy swings himself around the rock, reaching out wildly, then grabs onto another rock face and shifts his weight over with his feet. A younger woman to my left has a hand over her mouth, looking frightened.

Then the feed switches to the Darkness boy, his sallow skin looking even paler in the strange light of the Arena, hollowed cheeks shadowed. He shakily takes delicate steps forward, glancing over his shoulder all the while. I smile a little, remembering the overconfident boy Reaped only a little while ago, now only a semblance of his former self. Zant's betting average is 206, so he must show promise, and I struggle to remember his training score. Whoever bet on him may be having second doubts now, though. The Darkness boy looks unstable and extremely uneasy.

"Kid had a run-in with some wicked blade-monster a while back, betcha a dozen Singles wet their pants!" The Service man next to me says.

"This guy?" I respond, pointing to the screen.

"Nah, this one was the poisonous gas. He wasn't in the thick of it, got a bit high off it or something, was acting real strange… The Darkness chick, she was insane with the thing! Blade monster, I mean. Jumping tree to tree, got to its back, and then the video cut out and we had to watch some kid try to start a fire for an hour. Lame. It keeps happening with her… Mechanic's guild says it's the program, not anything they're doing, but I betcha they're just watching all the good parts themselves. Hey."

"Hey." I reply solemnly, remembering some of the pilots saying something similar a few days ago. Zant spins quickly around onscreen, and loud shushing fills the lobby, all eyes riveted on the boy, whose hands are clutching twin throwing knives loosely and skillfully, fear and excitement in his stance.

"He looks like he wants a fight, bless the poor kiddo in the bushes…" the Service man mutters as the Darkness boy advances, stance like a prowling cat, eyes sharp and gleaming. Then, with no hesitation, he leaps forward, a good long jump, lunging forward at the same time his arm whips back, knife hoisted high, lips twisted in a wicked smile that turns my stomach. In one sleek move he is jumping forward through the underbrush, coiled backwards, then untwisting his body in a ferocious and powerful movement that sends the knife like a bullet from his grip, spinning quickly through the air and catching a bit of fabric from a tribute's sleeve, pinning it to a tree.

"Yeah!" The roars fill the lobby as every rebel stands to get a better look at the screen, fighting for a better view, jumping on one another's shoulders playfully, pumping their fists into the air. Garmadon and I scramble up and try to get a glimpse of the projection, when suddenly corny action music sounds.

"It's the Ice kid! The guy!" Someone bellows, and the rebels' roars grow ever louder, filling the lobby. Garmadon winces and beckons to me.

"They like this? Shouldn't they be trying to stop it?" A twinge of concern blooms in my chest, but I ignore it.

"Maybe they see the kids as their enemies. They always call them Borg-lovers, maybe it's… Decreasing the population?" Garmadon shrugs and takes a few half-steps to the side to see over the broad shoulders of a particularly large Army man in front of him. I bend my knees slightly and glance up at a partially obscured feed under a soldier's arm and see the Darkness boy sprinting after the Ice boy, who streaks forward ahead of him like a bullet. Again Zant winds up his body and unleashes the second of his knives.

"Ah!" The rebels all cringe and I know the Darkness boy must have hit his target.

"Shoulder wound, not too serious if he treats it!" yells a Service guy far to my left.

"Aw, shut it, we're trying to watch!" Replies a thick, drawling voice.

The Ice boy continues to run, clutching at his right shoulder, now soaked red with blood. An image of Larson pops up in my mind and I feel sick, but I force myself to watch. Out of weapons, the Darkness boy keeps pursuing his prey, knowing with a knife wound he shouldn't be able to outdistance him. The camera zooms in on Zant's face, and the sight of it is revolting, every feature twisted into a sadistic grimace-like smile, warped from the face of a boy into the bloody visage of a monster, eyes glowing devilishly bright like fire, consuming, needing to feed.

The two approach a creek and the Ice boy blunders into it, tearing the knife from his shoulder as he does so and casting the thing away with his good arm, then clasps a hand to the opened wound to staunch the bloodflow. Clumsily he makes his way into the stream up to his chest, then begins a swift pull-kick sidestroke that puts some distance between him and the hungry monster behind him. But Zant, undeterred, again pounces in the same vaulting jump into the creek, pulling himself into a frenzied freestyle after the Ice boy.

For a kid having just been skewered by a knife, the Ice tribute is doing all right, but I can see the trail of blood he's leaving in the water and the clammy pallor of his face and know he can't go on like this. The stream is a wide one, and he isn't even halfway across yet, and already tiring, compared to Zant's sprinting swim. Admirably, the Ice boy doesn't give in, assessing his situation and calmly continuing his laborious and obviously excruciating journey across the stream. Behind his eyes there is the deadness of defeat, though. Ice kids are reasonable, they aren't dumb, and this one is no exception. He knows the odds are not in his favor, and he's still fighting. Admirable.

The rebels cheer for Zant, or shout at the Ice kid to get a move on, but behind their expressions of excitement I can see the faintest shade of displeasure, and then it hits me – this is what makes the rebels different than the civilians. Borg's followers would cheer mindlessly, oblivious to the suffering they were watching, but the rebels can see, can empathize. Even the toughest rebel still has a heart. Then where are the hearts of Borg's pliable and blind entourage?

Miraculously, the Ice boy makes it to the other side of the river before Zant catches up to him, stumbling on the bank, trying to right himself, eyes now widened to the size of quarters with terror and realization. Bloody drips of water speckle the sandy riverbank as he spins around, his already pale face going completely white when he sees how close Zant is, then swivels and claws his way up the bank and into the woods. Seconds later the Darkness boy lurches onto the sand, hardly fazed by the swim, pushing himself up with powerful arms and digging his feet into the loose sand, and scrambles up after his victim.

"Come on, come on…" Someone whispers, and I have the feeling they're not urging on Zant.

The camera switches to the Ice boy, who is bolting away from the other tribute as fast as his legs can carry him, but how long can he hold out, wounded and running for his life? With every step his face contorts into a grimace of pain, and the hand clutching his shoulder is painted a brilliant red. From behind the figure of Zant hastens after him, empty-handed but no less dangerous. The rowdy group of rebels is now completely mute, except for a few stray whispers and comments, but a hush falls over the soldiers. The action music is still playing, comical and nauseatingly relaxed, more fit for a cartoon than the death of a person. Or, maybe not a death after all…

The Ice boy barely skids to a halt before a monstrous cliff, his boot tips over the edge and both hands thrown wildly out, one unscathed, the other stained a horrible shade of mauve. The motion must be agonizing, but he manages to stop his momentum in enough time to keep from hurtling off the cliff. When I say cliff, I mean more of a straight-down fall from a mountain, the ground below obscured by trees that look like they're thousands of miles down, enough to give me vertigo just looking at it. The Ice tribute gulps visibly, but grabs his shoulder again and pivots, looking for Zant, who is maybe a hundred and fifty yards off and gaining, then turns again and glances over the cliff. I can practically see his thinking, analyzing, like this is some complicated math problem. Zant knocks the Ice tribute off of a cliff – calculate his trajectory. It looks like the Ice boy is about to run to the side and escape, when he takes a half-step to far and his boots slip from the edge of the cliff over, followed by his legs, chest, and head.

Shouts erupt from the rebels, some standing, some groaning, a few even bursting into tears. But, surprisingly, the name keeper next to the screen keeps the Ice boy's name – Zane – green. He's still alive! The camera switches in an instant to a side view of the cliff, where the boy dangles by a hand from a sizable ledge, and with a shock of horror I realize the hand gripping the protrusion is slick with blood. He's hanging from his wounded arm. The boy gives a small, pained cry, voicing his utter agony in that small noise. Sweat runs down his drawn, haggard face, mixing with tears of pain. I almost turn away – almost. Something about the Games is addictive, riveting, captivating, so that I can't avert my eyes, not yet.

The projection splits into two, one side showing a tortured Zane, and the other of Zant, again smiling that contemptible grin, hair slicked back from the swim and speed of running. Arms and legs pumping like machinery, he closes the gap between him and the cliff in what seems like an instant, then reaches the plummeting drop and freezes like he's been turned to stone, muscles tensed and ready, eyes flicking from side to side. The camera flicks to Zane for a second, who is biting his lip, eyes screwed shut, not even trying to pull himself onto the ledge. I find myself silently willing Zane to move, to swing himself up. Zant is still immobile, then he unfreezes and peeks over the edge of the cliff, where he surely will see his victim, but the cliff must slope inwards because he turns away, and his face is completely blank, eerily calm, only for a moment, though, before he explodes into rage.

A feral, inhuman scream tears through the calm of the forest, surely painful, but Zant doesn't seem to care, tearing at his hair and shouting inconsolably, wavering from a monster to a man again. For a moment there is respite, then the shout explodes from his chest again – a sound of utter hatred and failure.

"This is our cue." My brother says over the disturbed voices of the rebels, and I quickly stand up and rush to the elevator anything to get away from that dreadful sound…

"That was… Horrible." I gasp as soon as the lift's doors slide shut, blocking out any other noise from the Lobby. Garmadon shrugs, looking into my eyes.

"See what has happened? Is this a result of Borg, or just a remnant of the poison gas in his system, or is he mentally unstable? There's so much guessing to do." My bother tiredly rubs his temples as if to clear his head.

"Leave that to our superiors." I return, and the wisp of a smile plays at his lips for a second before it is gone.

I check the wall port in the elevator and see I have no more meetings for today, so Garmadon and I watch the training of the espionage squad – yep, spies. The training is incredibly interesting, about interrogation tactics, and I walk back to the elevator feeling more knowledgeable in manipulation than before. When I could use the information, though, is beyond me.

The rest of the time before lights-out is mostly me stalling, waiting to return to the retreat of my room and ponder, staying as far away from the lobby and the lunatic Zant as I can. Even though I try, the small TV on my dresser still advertises the twisted competition live. I see for a moment the face of Zane before I shut the system off and am glad he's still alive, unless it was a recap, but I don't want to turn it on to check. Lloyd could be on the list of deaths today, and that I couldn't bear.

I lie awake hours after the lights shut off, lost in thought, each idea too tangled to be discernable. Will there ever be an end to this relentless confusion?

**There you have it - is this the first time Zane gets a short time in the spotlight? **

**And the plot progresses... Dun dun dunnnn. (Ominous drums sounds)**

**Thanks for coming back after my satellite rant, too! *high fives***

**In the words of Gary Oak, smell ya later!**


	35. Chapter 35

**So I figured out what's wrong with the chapter numbers... Somehow I skipped chapter 34! I dunno how it happened, but okay...**

**For now, though, or until it starts to annoy me, the chapter numbers in writing and the numbers that appear won't match. I would change them but I'm lazy. (Real talk.)**

**Yeahwhateverchapterreadgo**

Chapter Thirty Six - Kai

I awake to blazing agony, like every fiber in my body is being torn apart.

Waves of pain roll over my entire body, and I struggle to stay conscious, ignoring the blackness slowly edging my vision, which is blurred and spinning wildly. _Breathe._ I swallow the rising bile in my throat and force myself to stay perfectly still, each breath sending sharp, torturous blasts of pain through my entire body. _Again. Breathe._ Slowly, my surroundings come into focus, bright light shining on my face and making my head throb, only adding to the general misery of my situation. Then something else appears before my eyes and I start backwards, sending pure fire through my veins, but I fight off the sensation and narrow my eyes, trying to target the now-blurred figure of the person kneeling before me.

"Don't move. It's better that way. I need you conscious for this." The voice sounds tinny and distant, and I lean my head back, begging for the painless darkness I emerged from. "No." The figure says harshly, "Look at me." Wearily I open my eyes again and grit my teeth, forcing the fire back. "I need to know the extent of your injuries. Can you focus on the center of your pain?" Focus? I can scarcely keep my eyes open!

"Fine." The figure huffs, then mutters something unintelligible. For a second I catch sight of the dark shape in front of me – a tribute. Well, obviously. And one who hasn't killed me yet. Female by the sound of the voice. Instead of thinking about the consuming torture slowly eating away at me, I think about the tribute who's saved me. Who, of all the tributes in the Arena, would do such a thing? Most would run. The Careers would kill me without a second thought. Who would spare my life?

"Ming." I croak, trusting myself for the first time to speak. Wisely, she keeps quiet, pacing instead in front of me, although through the haze of pain her figure is distorted, and I can only catch glimpses – the laces on her boots, bandaged hands, and the Darkness badge on her outer jacket. There's a short burst of pleasure, for my guessing her identity, then it's burned to ash in the fiery pain.

"Okay. Okay." She seems to be steeling herself. "Listen to me. You've broken and dislocated your arm, and I need to put it back into place before anything else. It's going to hurt. I'll count to three." I tense up, waiting for the torment.

She must count to one and two, but I only hear three before the explosion of pain wipes every scrap of anything away, replacing all thought and reason with sheer _agony_. For one second that seems to last eons I'm stuck in the vacuum of hell, shouting soundlessly, my whole body _on fire_, until it suddenly grows distant, the pain ebbing away…

"No!" Ming's angry voice brings me back and I manage to roll to the side away from her before I throw up everything I've eaten in the Games and more. I lay retching on the ground for a second before the Darkness girl pulls me back up again, and my eyes meet hers.

"See? I'm sorry but it was necessary. We can set your arm now."

I have no intention to subject myself to that again. "You haven't got any kind of narcotic handy, mysterious?" She flushes angrily and reaches in her bag, pulling out long strips of cloth and a few straight-whittled sticks.

"You wish," I can see behind her straight expression a look of pain surely mirrored on my own. Although she's just put me through hell and back, in a way I'm grateful. Ming also seems to be decently learned in setting limbs, too – slowly the pain has decreased from unbearable thumbscrews-and-blades to slightly more endurable but still very painful torture.

First Ming gives me a wad of cloth, which I bite as a gag, no more reassuring but useful. She takes a deep breath, like she doesn't want to cause me any more harm than she's already done, but after a moment she composes herself and has splinted my arm sturdily and well, using the branches and strips of cloth. This bout of misery is undeniably less painful than the last. When the Darkness girl steps away she looks smugly pleased, then glances to the left.

"We should be safe for now – you can sleep." And she does a strange wave motion with her hand, and I'm asleep in an instant.

When I come to again the fire in my body has shrunk to a throbbing in my arm, still powerful but incredibly better than before. The sharp light I remember has set to a dim twilight and the crickets in the forest have just begun their nightly chorus, in harmony with the rushing of a nearby creek. Short splashes add to the symphony and I smile, enjoying the music, but only for a second before the crack of a cannon ends all other noise, and the entire Arena holds its breath.

Ming returns during this caesura, holding in her arms several wriggling fish. Although I know I should probably eat, the sight of the meal makes me want to throw up again. The Darkness girl catches my expression and sets the catch of fish down on a stone nearby, then reaches out to her pack and withdraws a switchblade – my knife.

"Sharing is caring and all that, sweetheart, but a little warning next time would be nice." I call out to her, and she casts me withering look. Clumsily she cuts some of the meat from the now-still fish and sets it next to the skin, bones, and fish guts, which look just about as unpleasant as you can imagine. After all the fish have been similarly mangled, or 'cleaned', the Darkness girl collects the inedible parts and places them in a small, recently dug-out hollow and buries them. I admire her caution by doing so – many a tribute has been caught by carelessness such as simply tossing away their trash. It's too early to start a fire, though so she settles across from me and uses a small twig to clean the fish parts from my knife.

During the silence I get a good look at my location. Ming and I sit in a long indent in the earth, probably left from some long-dried river. A rock wall sweeps about five feet over my head, which I lean against now, where the side Ming is on gently curves into a hill, carpeted in crushed pine needles and damp earth. The creek I heard is over to my left, and if I crane my neck I can barely see it. To the right the concave cliff face curves on out of sight behind the trees.

"I guess you'll be wondering, so I found you kind of collapsed in a heap over there somewhere and pulled you here, tried to bring you round. But I have some questions for you."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow, watching her pick away at my knife.

"Yep. Why the soot? Was there a fire you ran from? And your hand – your fingertips are blackened, like they're burned, but they're not. You seem fine. What happened?" Even though Ming acts nonchalant, I can feel the curiosity behind her tone.

"Well, you see, it was very strange indeed…" I say playfully, and she glances up, smiling ever so slightly.

"Stop hedging."

"You're the mysterious one. You tell me." I can tell I've struck a nerve, because the mood of lightness falls immediately. Ming brings her knees to her chest and gazes at the trees above me, looking anxious.

"You're worried about her."

"Who?" Ming asks, but the edge in her voice answers my question for me. I suppose it isn't really a question if you already know the answer.

"Your stylist. Not your mentor, we both know that…" Ming makes a sharp _ssh_ kind of noise and I shrug, then wince as it sends spikes of pain down my left arm. I understand her intentions, even though Borg is likely censoring our conversation. Borg is always listening, even if the people aren't.

"That was bold." She says, laughing a little.

"So is challenging Borg's regime on a school playground." Recalling the spat at the school, we both laugh. "Guess I'm in no shape to fight anyone now."

"I'd say not." The Darkness girl says. "Who do you think died just a second ago?"

_Just everyday conversation in the Hunger Games._ "Probably not the Careers, although one of them should be dying any day now. My bet is one of the other kids, maybe from a lower element."

"And what's telling you this?" Ming asks, and again I feel the brimming curiosity.

"Patterns. Codes. You can kind of tell." I start to gesture with my splinted arm and grimace.

"You mean you can tell. How do you figure that out?" Ming pries, but it doesn't feel like she's grilling me or anything, like some of the other traders, trying to find out my methods.

Oh, hell, Borg knows about my past already, what's the risk now? I'm in the Hunger Games! "I'm a trader, and I don't want to sound prideful or anything, but I'm one of the best. God, it sounds bad. But you can learn things there. How to read people, things, measuring, and learning ciphers. It's amazing – our entire world is run on ciphers and codes. If you know them you can control them. Like, for instance, you cut your hands by tearing the skin when you climbed trees. Or if we were to walk about a hundred yards to our right there's a pitfall trap disguised. Or that the Arena is almost exactly like one from about fifty years ago, terrain-wise." I don't look up at Ming, but rather reach into my jacket pocket and pull out some of the leaves I've been studying.

"Some codes are easy, some are hard. And this… This is impossible."

"Leaves… From the Arena, right?" Ming guesses, and I nod.

"They've got a message or something in them, that I'm positive of. Normal leaves of this type have their own cipher. And this… Whether it's Borg's doing or not, there's a message here. And I think I'm supposed to figure it out."

Ming nods, taking a leaf in her hand and examining it. To her credit, she doesn't laugh or dismiss the idea or say I'm crazy. "Clever… It's just ingenious. And if they did this with loads of leaves and plants and things in the Arena, and Borg heard us just now, which he obviously did, then he wouldn't be able to stop it. You can't just round up the tributes and shuttle them off to a new Arena."

"And then there's the problem. Who's 'they'? The secret organization or whatever who has put the codes here?"

"I dunno – Ninjas." Ming says absently, then starts to get wood for a fire. At her words I smirk, remembering the trades about the ancient protectors of good back ages ago.

"There may be more truth in those words than you think," I say quietly, so that Ming doesn't hear me, and I smirk, feeling the same sensation of knowing what others don't when I face the betters or lesser traders. Which 'they' are probably feeling now, if they're looking at me.

Once night has really fallen Ming sets up a fire, cooking the fish meat on hot stones nearest the crackling flame. The smell of the roasting meat must be attracting every one of Borg's mutated monsters in the nearest hundred miles, but Ming doesn't seem to care. While we wait for our meal to cook she tells me the story of how she encountered a blade monster and narrowly escaped, which makes for good conversation. In response I tell her about the trading hub – about the betters and the hidden products and facing other traders.

"It's kind of like a battle, a battle of minds, where you're up against someone who recognizes your patterns almost as soon as you use them and have to be constantly switching yours, while trying to find flaws in their armor, which is constantly changing, too. A good trade is amazing to watch, like someone fighting their reflection, each jab just as fast, exactly the same, a parry for each strike."

"Like you and Chen," Ming adds, taking the fish from the fire, then glancing up at me and grinning. "Except I could tell you were in control. Chen has done that for ages, and having someone his caliber come up and… It was incredible. Like a battle, like you said."

"Oh… Thanks, I guess…" I say, kind of at a loss.

"The death count should come on in a second. Any bets on who died?"

I shake my head. "That's what the betters do. I don't want to follow in their footsteps." Ming nods understandingly.

Painfully I readjust my position, biting my lip to distract myself from the constant throbbing in my arm, and look up between the tree leaves to see the glowing 'BE' shine brilliantly in the sky, blotting out the nearby stars with its light. The dead tribute is Michael the Air boy. "No more Air kids in this Games." Ming comments, and I watch as the face of the tribute winks away into the darkness again.

"You should probably rest. No need to keep watch tonight, I'm pretty sure there's no one around." Ming stamps out the fire and scatters the charred wood around the campsite randomly, then kicks away the ashes. To my eyes it's obvious someone was here, but a scared little kid wouldn't notice at all. Before she settles down Ming slides my switchblade back to me and I pick it up, feeling the textured handle with satisfaction.

"Thanks for letting me borrow it."

"Not a problem. Now we might as well get some rest before Borg finds a new reason to kill us."

"Agreed. Let's."

**I like them as an alliance, they have good chemistry... (Eyebrow raise) and so much sass! **

**What else should I say? I'm late again. I would apologize but you're probably sick of it. SoooOoooOooOOoo... **

**Did you see the new Sherlock trailer? Do it now. You need to. Stop what you're doing and run.**

**And the Zelda concert was AMAZING! I might have cosplayed... Just maybe... But there were loads of other people with epic costumes and the music was really well done, it was the best!**

**Maybe I'll be inspired to write a Zelda fanfic for y'all... If I get any ideas (which is 99.9999% not likely to happen, unfortunately)**

**And that's all the time we have. See ya! :)**


	36. Chapter 36

**Happy Monday, everyone! Or rather, unhappy Monday, because who really likes Mondays? (NOT me.)**

**Thankfully my volleyball season is over and I'll have more time to write! This story is already completed, but I'm still working on the sequel.**

***Gasp* Is that a spoiler? There's going to be a sequel? I can't remember if I've mentioned this before, but yeah, there ya go. *Applause***

**With visions of sequels dancing through your heads, read on!**

Chapter Thirty Seven – Lloyd

I shake the water from my boots and for the millionth time curse the Gamemakers and their stupid constant rainstorms. I'm curled safely out of harm, and most of the pouring rainfall, under an upturned tree. Green moss coats the tree's bark like a blanket, and I know that it must be ancient. However, I'm glad it fell for the moment.

Lighting slashes through the sky, painting brilliant streaks of yellow across the dull grey-black sky. The thunder is so powerful I find myself clinging to the tree's extended branches as the enormous crash shakes the earth mercilessly. My supplies are completely soaked. The apple slices molded ages ago, and the lack of food tugs at my stomach like a constant, slow burn. Food is scarce, but it didn't seem like that closer to the Cornucopia, though I'd rather starve than go any closer to the Careers and their hunting pack.

The Air tributes are out of the Games; the guy, Michal, died yesterday, his face appearing maybe ten minutes before the rainstorm that still rages. Sometimes the element whose tributes get killed the quickest are teased, ridiculed by the elements who have Career tributes on their side or have loads or victors. All-Element usually is not too successful, and I know the jabs of the Light and Metal kids at school. "Can't scrounge up a single victor? Think you'll do any better? Let's wipe out the weak links, eh?" As far as I know, Arden is still alive. Usually loads of tributes die early on, or the Games can last only a week in some cases. We've been in here nine days, and still only four tributes have died. Are they trying to drag it out? I'll starve before there's another death!

My dripping pack is open and I peer inside, ignoring the rancid scent coming from it, which must be the apples. I've been meaning to throw them in the next stream I come across, which seem abundant, but haven't done so yet. My knife is strapped at my belt with some rope from my pack, which serves as a pretty good scabbard, although I have to watch out when I sit down so as not to be impaled. The small first aid kit and bundle of rope, neatly wrapped, seems pathetically small in comparison to the Careers' gear that I got a good look at that night a few days ago.

Even the memory sends a jolt of adrenaline and fear coursing through my blood, and I clench my fist to my knife. Could I do it? If Medli or Sawyer came barreling out of the woods with their weapons aloft, could I kill them? The hand on my knife trembles and I release it slowly. Even the thought of a Career fills me with terror. Don't dwell on those things.

The rain grows so heavy the ground is turned to a constant mudslide, so when I step and lift my foot the tracks are wiped away. I put on my damp coat, hunkering under its hood, swing my pack onto my back, then step out into the deluge, jogging away from the collapsed tree. For a while the terrain is mostly similar, just trees and small hills and little rocks. After a mile or so, though, the ground begins to fall downwards, so I have to carefully pick my way down to steepening decline, careful of especially slick mud. I must be going into a valley, but that's fine, because water flows downhill and I'll probably find a stream or a lake to make camp by. Finn's advice circles around my head and I smile, remembering my mentor. For a second I feel a burst of spite – Finn is safe at Borg Tower, being fed well and sleeping without worry someone will come in and kill him without a second though. Then I remember Finn has been in the Games, too, and that he's trying to keep me alive. And the Nindroid costumes – Borg has every reason to kill him! In a way, Finn and I are in our own personal Hunger Games, and we're both on Borg's home turf.

The valley descends for quite a while, and I find myself hurrying from tree to tree to keep from tumbling down the steep incline. Unlike the slope, the rain has tapered off, replaced with the smoky clouds again. After such a long time without sunlight I don't know what I'd give to be back in the light again. The trees seem to be doing all right without it, though, and I can live without sunlight. _If you live at all… This is the Hunger Games, remember. _

My rain-soaked feet beg for rest, so I lean against a tall pine tree and tie my pack's straps to a low-hanging bough, where it's easily accessible. Dull brown pine needles cemented into the wet ground prove to be decent cushioning, and I drift off easily and peacefully.

Muffled shouting drags me from my slumber, and I whip out my knife and snatch my pack onto my back, then scramble for the shelter of the tree, curling up in a nook in the wooden branches and peering out where I heard the sound. The tones are mixed, some anxious, some bored, and there's only one group who could be here now – the Careers.

"You're sure he's here?"

"The tracks were as clear as if he'd walked in concrete!" A weight drops in my stomach as I realize my 'untraceable' plan when walking through the mud wasn't as good as I thought. My suspicions are confirmed; the Careers are tracking me.

"Who is it, Kris?" Kris? The Earth girl, maybe.

"Young kid, a guy, walking full-foot."

"I think we all walk full-foot, you Earth kids have rocks for brains."

"Shut it, Sawyer, unless you want to go rolling down that slope yourself."

"Aww, I'm so _scared_."

"Shut up, you two – it means he wasn't walking tiptoe or trying some fancy foot thing that would throw us off."

"Stupid kid. Who you think it is?"

I almost scream, biting my tongue and squeezing my eyes shut. Why does it always end up like this? Why do they have to always find me?

"Probably the All-Element tyke."

"At any rate, we'll find him. Start down this way." I recognize Medli's bossy, commanding voice and shrink back in the tree branches. They'll trace my tracks this far and I'll be a sitting duck. Why is this so similar to last time? My breaths come fast and I put a hand over my mouth, stifling the noise. The Careers come to me, I hide, they go away, the cycle continues, forever and ever. _Okay, come on. Pull it together. _

"Go to that group of rocks over there, we're close."

_I can see them now_. Muddy and disgruntled-looking, four of the Careers make their way down to patch of rocks forty yards to my left, sliding on their sides, using their hands to control their descent. I know Sawyer and Kris the Earth girl are here, and Medli too, and then Scarlett slides into view, easily getting to the rocks first, her wiry frame slicked with mud. Once all of the Careers have congregated Sawyer speaks, not caring to disguise or lower his tone.

"So where's the kid?" Medli points in my direction, but even from my vantage point I can tell she's a little bit off. Could I get out of this by sheer luck? Could the Careers pass me up?

"What are we waiting for?" The Metal boy looks bored and angry, crossing his arms.

"Nothing. We just need to make a plan." Scarlett says clearly, glancing around as if hoping I'll pop out of the trees.

"Fine. You can make a plan, but I'm going after him." Climbing down from the rocks, Sawyer starts to make his way over to me, until a knife buries itself in the ground next to his left hand.

"No." Medli says, taking another knife out of her pocket, a long one that looks like a handle, then flips out. "You and Kris stay here. If something happens to us or you, just shout and we'll be right back, 'kay? Scarlett, you come with me."

"C'mon, why can't I kill the punk?" The Metal boy whines, a sour expression plastered across his face, distorting his features.

"Scarlett and I are the lightest, we'll have the easiest time getting to him and climbing the trees or whatever we have to do." Even though they're discussing the ease at which they will kill me, I can sense the reason behind Medli's words. Sawyer must see it too, so he gives a dissatisfied grunt and turns away. Medli and Scarlett slither down from the rock pile and start to walk my way, one hand on the steep, muddy slope. My eyes are focused on them as they draw their weapons – Medli, her strange knife and Scarlett, a short spear, both held loosely at their sides. Attention on their weapons is diverted, though, when I see Sawyer slowly put a hand inside his jacket and withdraw a knife.

My first thought is in awe at how easily he holds the weapon, even though it's easily the biggest knife I've ever seen, more of a very short sword, really. He glances over his shoulder at Kris, who is kneeling on the rocks, examining the descent. Pivoting slowly so as not to startle the Earth girl, Sawyer turns, balancing on the balls of his feet, knife held back at an angle and away from his body. "Kris?" He calls quietly, and the girl turn to face him.

"Yeah?" She asks, but before she can finish the knife blade rips into her abdomen. Sawyer's eyes are malicious, a smile cutting across his face, and he jerks the blade upward. Maybe Kris is too shocked or too damaged to shout, but before she can Sawyer plants his boot in her chest and pushes her back, withdrawing his knife and flipping it back into his coat with one motion. The Earth girl tumbles backwards over the edge of the rocks, blood spreading like a rising tide over her stomach and chest, and she rolls down the hill and out of sight, body smashing brutally against other rocks on the way down.

"Kris… Oh my god, Kris!" Sawyer shouts, voice trembling believably, and Medli and Scarlett, who have just stepped into the trees, turn just in time to see the body of the Earth girl fall out of sight, leaving a trail of dark blood down the valley's slope.

"What happened?" Medli gasps, and the Metal boy turns to her, eyes shining not with tears, as they appear, but with pleasure.

"She had leaned forward to see down the decline, but she went too far – oh my god…" Tearing at his hair, Sawyer looks at the girls with fake grief radiating from every feature, his hands trembling.

In seconds Medli and Scarlett are back at the rocks, peering over the edge, where they can probably see Kris' body. Almost the second they reach Sawyer the cannon booms, so close and so loud it makes my ears ring. Another movement catches my eyes and I see Sawyer's hand twitch, not from the fake trembles of pain, but with longing. He wants to kill his alliance-mates. My blood runs cold as he reaches towards his jacket again…

"We should go tell Daphnes and Cole." Medli announces spinning around swiftly and walking to the incline.

"But we're so close to getting the kid!" Sawyer cries, and Scarlett gives his a sidelong look of distrust.

"For your information, _Sawyer_," The Light girl says, exasperated, "one of the members of our alliance just died!"

"We can tell them that we took a life for vengeance! We can kill the kid Kris gave her life trying to find!"

"Since when did you get so righteous, Iron Man?" Sawyer's eyes narrow at Scarlett's jab at his element, but he doesn't reply. "Whatever, we should probably tell Daphnes and Cole anyways."

"But the kid is here!" Comes the protestation.

I must blink, because Medli is suddenly pointing a knife under Sawyer's chin, so close that he gulps and takes a step back.

"Listen to me, you arrogant, good for nothing –" The Light girl takes a shaky breath and continues. "We are done with putting up with you delightfully unnecessary input. You want to know how long you'll last on your own with the alliance not on your side? We'll give you a head start and hunt you down in an hour. Wise up and shut it if you know what's good for you! Or we'll see how much you want to complain with your throat out."

Growling darkly, Sawyer shoves his hands in his pockets. "Good." Medli smiles sweetly, then sheathes her knife and starts up the slope, Scarlett behind her. I can see the flash in the Metal boy's eyes as he follows, up until they fade from sight again.

My hands have been clenched so tightly they are chalk-white, but I can't release them. _I can't. I can't do this_. I have to move somewhere, but I can't go up the way the Careers did, or down to where Kris' body lies. Even though she is, was, my enemy, I can't bear to go down and see her again. I can't do this. I really, really can't.

Crawling down from the tree, I start to my right, away from the rocks and the Careers and Kris, stumbling over rocks and roots, when a magical-sounding tingling radiates from a clump of bushes. I whip out my knife and slowly edge closer to the noise, ready to strike, but then I see the folded, rumpled parachute of a tribute gift and put away my weapon. Finding a safely hidden spot nearby, I crack open the package and read first the slip of paper on top

KEEP IT UP – FC

Is that it? Motivation? I glare at the slip of paper, imagining myself glaring at Finn. Couldn't he put something useful it, like matches or a machete?

As I stare at the paper I can feel myself breaking down. Can I really continue with this? How long will it be before I'm lifted into a hovercraft? _Sooner than you think._

**The Career chapters are always interesting, yeah? Sawyer seems like a nice guy, though, huh? (No. The answer is no.)**

**And I saw that some people have voted in the polls! You guys win the best people ever award. It'll be cool to see what other people think about the victor of the Games, too, so why don't you check it out and vote? So far the winner is Ming, and if it changes I'll keep you posted on who's winning. Go vote! (Please thank you you're the best!)**

**And I indeed have started writing my Zelda fanfiction! Not sure if I'll post it here or on my Wattpad account. There's only one chapter so far, but progress is progress, right? **

**Thanks again for reading! **


	37. Chapter 37

**THIS IS MY FAVORITE CHAPTER! **

**Okay, I amend my previous statement. This is (arguably) my favorite chapter in the first book/story/whatever.**

**Read and tell me what you think! (Very excited right now ;D)**

Chapter Thirty Eight – Ming

My progress in moving about is somewhat restricted with Kai now part of my alliance that kind of just mutually happened. He can tell, though, and has never asked to rest or stop, so I have to call when we should take a break, which is kind of awkward, because I know he's subjecting himself to a lot of pain for my sake. I've done everything I can for him without totally blowing what cover I have left, but it's not enough to take the perpetual look of pain out of his eyes, even if he can keep it from showing in his other features. Still, although Kai may think he's a hassle, his help and companionship definitely outweighs any cons of having him as an ally. I'd be dead ten times over if it weren't for his weird trader super-senses, which I still don't entirely get, but am grateful for nonetheless. He's also particularly good at finding food, no easy feat now, because it seems like the Gamemakers are pulling the drawstring on edible things left in the Arena. The Careers are surely well-off, eating their pre-packaged meals from the Cornucopia, feasting like kings – but it turns out that mudroot paste isn't as totally unappetizing as it sounds, and I would qualify myself as someone difficult to please, especially after the rich foods of Borg Tower.

Conversation, though, or any other normal non-Hunger-Games stuff, is strange to say the least. Kai and I both keep to ourselves, which suits me just fine, repacking our supplies while he stares at his leaves for hours on end. After a while it's grown a little comical, watching him scowl intensely at the small scrap of green unrelentingly, looking dead-serious, which I guess is in its own way a bad Games pun. Whoever is trying to contact him, do it faster!

As I start a fire Kai watches from the opposite side of our camp, leaning casually against a tree trunk like this is just a picnic in the woods. I can tell from his pinched expression that he's in pain, and feel the same guilty pang knowing I could repair his arm in an instant. You've already done enough magic in the Games! Any more would endanger the alliance, too. I don't want to admit to Kai my gift, or that teaming up with me may not have been a smart move. But he has those freaky-awesome trader skills, has he gleaned as much already?

"No deaths today?" I ask, trying to make conversation more than anything else, because today has been canon-free.

"Nah. Slow day. This'll have tided them over for the time being. Lots of good pictures of us gazing into each other's eyes at the campfire…"

"Ugh! You wish!" The Fire boy grins roguishly, then his smile turns into a wince.

"Don't pretend Borg isn't going to warp this like that…"

"I prefer not to think about it – don't incite anything or on your own head be it!"

"Consider me forewarned, darling." I roll my eyes and kick some more needles on the fire. Soon the air is filled with the smell of pine, strangely comforting in the darkness.

"Umm… Can I ask you something?" I begin, and Kai raises an eyebrow at me.

"Who said to not incite anything?"

I'm pretty sure my blush lights up the night sky. "That's not what I meant – mean – whatever."

"I'm listening."

"I just wanted to ask… What is life like in Fire? Really. I know there's the stupid competition-segregation thing, so you never get to know what living is like in other elements." Suddenly, I recall the interview my ally had with Chen. "I hear you have a rite of passage. Something with lions?"

Kai smiles, and I can tell he remembers his quip, too. "Well…" He sighs, then looks at me with a hint of sadness in his eyes. "My life, or just life in general?"

I shrug. "Either."

"My life, then." For a moment I'm surprised he chose the more personal option, but maybe it's a gesture of trust or something, I don't know. "My mom died when I was really young. They say she was ill, and that's what my dad said, too, and I hate to think he'd lie to me or anything, but there's always the question. To protect me or something." The flames cast shadows across Kai's face, maximizing the look of pain on his face, emotional and physical, until his face is a mask of anguish. "My dad was great. You probably heard that on the interview, that part was true. He traded, like me. Taught me everything I know – or what I didn't learn on my own." Extending his right hand, the Fire boy's lips twitch up in a half-smile. "Trading is illegal, everyone knows that. Death penalty. So one day… He got caught. All the male children in the family have to witness the execution and… I don't really want to talk about it, if that's okay."

"It's fine," I say softly, crossing my legs and leaning back.

"So it was just me and my sister for a long time. She knits and I trade her stuff, and I trade anyways… We got by. Pretty well, too, compared to some of the other kids in our position. Borg never caught on. Or maybe he did and didn't care. Or… See, this is how it goes. All the questions, no answers. But, yeah. Then Nya convinced me to go to school that one day…"

"Lucky thing, too." I mutter. "You probably saved my life."

"Sounds really dramatic and all."

"I know what you're thinking, shut up."

"You asked!"

"Fine."

"Fine yourself. Then the Reaping. And now this."

"Hmm."

"That was really unenthusiastic. How about your life story, huh?"

"You want me to cheer or something?"

"No, don't. Hate to bring any Careers on our trail." Reminding me that we are still in the Hunger Games, not just casually chatting at school.

"You asked for my life story? Here it is."

"I can hardly breathe for anticipation."

"You asked!"

"Touché. Continue."

"Kind of the same way. I dunno who dad was, Mother had a weird thing where she just wouldn't acknowledge he existed. Wouldn't speak his name. She died in childbirth, and my sister soon after." Kai doesn't say anything, which I respect, just dips his head. "So I guess we're the same in one way."

"And Darkness? What's it like there?"

"Nice, once you get how things work."

"Nice?"

"People always pick on Darkness, because they want to be higher than someone else. So we're the scapegoat. Okay, it kind of sucks, but only if you want friends or company or something."

"Which I'm guessing you don't."

"No. I prefer being alone."

"Go on."

"So… Darkness people, we have a mutual dislike for each other, so we all leave each other alone. And the other elements leave us be 'cause they're scared or something, so we're loners. Admittedly," I address the stereotype of Darkness, "There are some hardcore Darkness kids like you think of them. Okay, a lot."

"But not you."

"What makes you say that?" I snap back, maybe a little too quickly, because Kai withdraws.

"You're the mysterious one. How am I to know?"

"Can we stop bringing this up?" I huff, and the Fire boy laughs.

There's a few minutes of silence, where I tend to the flame and Kai watches the sky, which is speckled with brilliant stars. After seeing him, I look upward also and gaze at the celestial bodies.

"There's Orion's belt. He's a man from mythology. I learned it in a trade. Same with Hephaestus – I called a Nindroid that back in Borg Tower. Whatever, right?"

"Yeah." I say, more focused on the stars than what my ally is saying.

"Ming?"

"Yep?"

"The first day I met you, you were saying stuff about Borg, and the ideas forced upon the civilians about elements and stuff. At least, that's what I think you meant." My mouth goes dry and I anxiously glance at Kai, who is still looking up at the sky. "How do you think they do it?"

"W-what?"

"How does Borg does it? Gets us to hate each other, to divide the elements. Has anyone ever had a friend in another element? Seems common, right, like someone would eventually do it?"

"I guess…" I wonder where Kai is going with this…

"But I'm willing to bet no one has. Really. Do you agree?"

"I don't know, I think someone would…"

"Do you think? Borg would make them an example, and the civilians would see, and it would become a bedtime story. 'Now, kids, never be friends with other elements, or you'll be just like that man.'"

"Then the kids would wonder, and ask questions, and try it out just to see."

"I guess you're right…" Kai blows out a breath of air, and I can tell he's frustrated.

"I didn't ask for this." He points to the Fire badge on his jacket, and I subconsciously reach up and brush my own emblem with my fingers. "Did I get to choose? No. Borg chose for me. Borg chooses everything. And here we are, his perfect unquestioning little peasants." He spits the last word out like it's a curse. "They say the test is flawless. What if it's just another of his devices, to funnel us into groups, perfectly balanced so as not to rebel, to cause something to happen?"

"But the character traits…"

"You spend enough time in one place you adapt. It's a way of life."

"I doubt it. Too much of a change."

"Fine then. There is some aspect of filtering in the test. Satisfied?" His tone is so defiant and suddenly charged with anger than I can only bite my lip and nod. "Has he ever explained elements? What do they even mean? We display an aptitude towards one – what does that prove?" Again, I'm speechless, partly because his words make sense, to some degree, at least. "Can you summon darkness from your hands, Ming?" Yes, I think, and the irony strikes me as funny. Still, I've never met another person with my gifts before. "So can I make fire, too? Wave my hand and this flame'll go out?" Now I'm nervous. Borg is obviously watching, and to have a tribute question the basis of his crafted society, the elements themselves…

"Kai," I say, and he fixes me with a glare so intense I can almost feel its heat. And for the first time since we have made our alliance, I am afraid of him.

"No, don't you start. It's the labels that keep us apart, too. Don't you get it? All of the other kids at the school, all the civilians – Ming, that day at school, I thought you could think like I did. I thought you could see through all of this."

"Stop." I whisper, balling my fists, and am surprised to feel tears in my eyes, but Kai doesn't notice.

"That's what keeps us together, the elements, all cozied up with our group, who needs the others when we can have Borg…" The cynicism in his tone is almost tangible.

"Kai, stop."

"Well, you know what?" In one swift motion Kai reaches up and tears the badge from his jacket, then from his shirt, and tosses them in the fire. "I'm a Fire tribute, huh? Let the badges burn. See how he likes that. How good are your boundaries now?" He shouts at the sky, and I stand, now angry at him.

"Kai, stop." Our eyes meet, and as I stand there looking down on him the rage melts away, replaced by pain again, and the look is enough to make me almost cry. Slowly my ally leans back, collapsing from the absence of the anger that fueled him a moment ago. The tears sting my eyes but I don't break eye contact until Kai looks down, seeming so small and vulnerable now, and begins to speak.

"Ming." Now I lash out at him, snapping back at what he said.

"Oh, don't you start now, either! It's enough to get our sorry hides killed by blaspheming against god almighty Borg, but you have to alert every tribute in the Arena where we are by sending off a signal flare! Burn your badges all you want, see what good it does!"

"You're frightened."

"I – what?"

"I scared you." His voice is quiet now, and I look down at my muddy boots, searching for something to watch besides his face.

"No – it's fine, I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Ming…"

"Oh, don't apologize," I retort, and Kai takes a sharp breath. When he speaks again, his voice is slightly strained.

"The part about you not seeing past Borg… I didn't mean that."

"You did."

"No, I did not."

"What, you were just mad, or you didn't know what you were saying, or wanted to use me as an example? Forget it!" The Fire boy sighs, then grabs his knife and slides it to me.

"What's this for?" I ask, trying to keep the snip in my voice, but I can tell Kai wants to end our conversation. He knows I won't be consoled – at least, not now. Partially, though, I want him to try.

"Keep it. Prove me worthy of your trust again. And if the Careers come, I'm not much use in a fight anyways." Defeat laces his voice, but fine, let him feel sorry for himself. Big deal.

I gather my stuff and curl up with my back to the fire, facing the woods, and am glad that sleep takes me quickly tonight – I don't want to have to face Kai again.

**So what did you think? *awkward if you didn't like it***

**Why don't you shoot out a review and tell me? Or if you have any questions or whatever, I'm there too. **

**And the polls! I could totally use your votes there! Your feedback is the best and I look forward to hearing from you... Maybe? Please? *wink wink***

**That's all for today! Thanks for reading, you're the best!**


	38. Chapter 38

**Welcome back, mi amici! For another chapter of the Hunger Games (dun dun dun.)**

**Well, what did you think of the last chapter?**

***crickets***

**Oh, I see how it is. **

**But you don't care about this whole bolded text shebang, do ya? Read on! **

Chapter Thirty Nine – Wu

You would think Borg had just declared surrender by the way the delegates erupt in celebration once the Hunger Games feed switches. Choruses of whoops and hollers fill the room to its bursting point, a few begin to weep with joy, while others just smile with satisfaction and observe.

"You were right, doggonit, Johnson, and whoever else you all were…" A loud voice shouts, rousing another wave of praise.

"There's your act of rebellion. Right there!" Watson adds, smacking his knee to add to the effect.

"How long until the act is instilled in the civilians?" A bookish woman interjects, unable to keep a thin smile from her lips.

"Ah, the uneasy ones will be on it right away, and the unsure ones will follow, and the stable ones will grow uneasy and scared. We'll have an army by noon tomorrow!" One of the men near me does a strange wiggling dance in his chair, and we all laugh.

"Time to celebrate, friends! Champagne, anyone?"

"Hit me!" Comes the reply, and we laugh again, knowing that if we could get any drinks this late at night with the cafeterias closed it would be water.

Thrace watches the projection on the meeting room wall with a look of fulfillment on his face, not cheering with the others, balanced, calm, ever in control. Williams, equally composed, leans in to talk to Thrace.

"Sir, what is next on our agenda? Now that our act of rebellion is completed, what shall we do?"

"The public will react to this, as I sense they already have." Thrace glances to the feed, then back to his advisor. "There will be a gathering of same-minded civilians, regardless of element, like the boy addressed it. Clever on his part, too." Which is the highest compliment I've ever heard issued by Thrace. "The Nindroids will keep pouring in, but they will do little to stop it. If there's one thing machine cannot tame, it is the human spirit."

"Well said, sir." Williams bows his head.

"Civilians usually unquestioningly following Borg will be confused, frightened, and keep to their own, but the seed will be planted."

"And the Darkness girl, sir? She seemed to discourage the Fire boy's thoughts."

"They are both in the Hunger Games. He is wounded, she is frightened, any word or action out of line could lead to their deaths. Would you not act similarly?"

"And that was certainly out of line, sir."

"The Fire boy also said that they were like-minded. We have the tapes of the playground occurrence… She shows great promise. Not just because of this, though."

"Ah." Williams smiles dryly like he and Thrace are sharing a private secret, which I'm sure they are.

"And then, when the time is right… We strike."

The delegates, now released, flood into the hallway, some heading to their barracks, some going down to the lobby to party with some of the other soldiers. Soon Garmadon is at my side, along with Scourge and a bewildered-looking Eli, who has a grin on his face.

"Not the partying type?" I ask, and Scourge shrugs.

"Not really."

"Me either," Eli chips in, "Never really liked them, for some reason." A loud bang issues from down the hall and all four of us instinctively duck, then laugh.

"I can see why…"

"How about we head to the lobby? I know they're having a party there, but maybe they'll have refreshments!"

"In this prison camp? Dream on." We don't have anything better to do, though, and it's already past midnight – it was in the middle of the night when Thrace summoned the delegates through the wall ports – and the new lights-out will be in action soon, so why not? Eli is practically bouncing with excitement as we ride down the elevator.

"Wasn't that cool? The way he burned the badges! Smart, too, seeing as he was Fire! And wow, what a speech! Awesome."

"The girl is bright, too. I hope she'll be an asset also." I'm about to ask how the tributes could be our assets when Scourge intervenes.

"Did you hear the Mechanic's guild had to patch the feed? Borg was trying to shut it down, to switch, but they hacked it and kept the feed running for the citizens and us!"

"Is this their first move against Borg, the first real one? Won't he know about us now?" Garmadon's forehead creases with worry.

"It should show up as a server error, and I'm sure Borg is getting a lot of those lately." Scourge winks and we all grin, then the door slides open into the lobby, where a full-blown party is in swing.

Hundreds of soldiers gather in the main area, shouting like wild animals, dancing to music with an intense bassline that shakes the ground with every beat, so that Eli has to grab my arm and steady himself once we step out of the lift. Multicolored lights spiral around the room unpredictably, adding to the chaos of the night. Like always, the Games feed is projected on the wall, but next to it is a news channel from the Complex, displaying a scene of a huge bonfire around which stand hundreds of citizens, maybe thousands, all tearing off their element patches and tossing them into the fire. Most have tears on their tunics where the badges used to be. A few hold signs, 'Down With Borg', 'Dissolve Elements', 'The Patchless Reign', and so on.

"Wow," my brother gasps as he watches the Complex stream. "So they're calling themselves the patchless. Catchy, I guess."

"The Fire boy had a great effect on them. I didn't expect..." I gesture to the bonfire scene with one hand.

"Thrace said so, but… This is massive-scale. Borg will have to ship in loads of Nindroids to calm them."

"Hey guys, you're missing the party!" Eli shouts from the edge of the throng, then a young Tactical girl grabs his hand and pulls him back in, to which he happily obliges. Garmadon glances hopefully at the dancing soldiers, but I start for the lifts. "I'm going to turn in for the night. And they don't have refreshments, so why stay?"

He shrugs and says goodbye, then I walk to the lift and ride to my floor, then to my room, where the television is playing a broadcast of the rampant rebellion in the Complex.

"Since its founding, the Complex has never seen such utter disobedience!" The first newscaster says, and though he's not pictured, I can tell it is Chen, the interviewer from the Games.

"Statistics say not." Pixal drones as the camera zooms in on one of the fires, where the badges easily curl and blacken in the intense heat, an intensity reflected on the faces of the civilians, shouting for their cause.

"The populous cries for Borg to release them from the element system. That won't do at all!" Chen chuckles, lighthearted-like.

"Why not?" I growl, then sit on my bed and watch the screen.

"For our viewers watching tonight, the element system is a time-tested and time-honored system that sorts citizens into groups who display similar aptitudes, in order for them to work together, bond together, and do their civic duty more efficiently." The robot's monotone sounds like she's reciting from a textbook.

"Yes, yes, that's all very good indeed!" Chen says, and I can detect a strain of worry in his voice as the camera shows more pictures, some of signs with decapitated Nindroid heads, others with pictures of Lloyd and Arden in their Nindroid costumes, captioned 'Man or Machine?' "Why all this ruckus, though, I do not understand."

"It is… Untimely." Did Pixal hesitate? I smirk as she and Chen walk up to their newscasting desk and take their seats, thick files of notes set before them.

"Obviously, news right now is the patchless rebellion." Chen begins, smiling brightly and winningly at the camera. "However, Borg's Nindroids have everything under control." No video clips are shown now, probably because the Nindroids are unable to calm such a gargantuan group of people. "We have faith that this small skirmish will be contained within the day. In fact, it's not really a rebellion at all." Chen must think this is a nice touch, because he smirks in a proud sort of way.

"Our next news is about the Hunger Games, where the death of Zant Eriksson stunned us all." A short video clips shows Zant, the Darkness boy, who looks positively feral, stumbling through the woods, his eyes wide and bloodshot, face hanging. In a few steps he falls to the ground, body splayed over roots and rocks, before the cannon fires. We get a good look at his chest, which has been torn open by something, and I have to look away, stomach churning. The amount of blood is staggering, spreading over the dirt as he lies there, staining the earth deep scarlet. "As a recap for our viewers, the other deceased are Aimee Holmes of Air, Michael Bedford of Air, Zant Eriksson of Darkness, Kris Young of Earth, Stirling Lightfoot of Fire, and Ashleigh Reeves of Lightning. Our alliance count has reached two now, viewers – the alliance of Kai Burns and Ming Mako has given us something interesting!" Chen looks greedily at the now-shown pictures of the two tributes, but none of the heated discussion that lead to the 'rebellion.' Knowing Chen, he'll warp it into a love affair or something. Frankly, I wouldn't care, but the Fire boy was our act of rebellion, so I'm indebted to pay some attention.

"Yes, the alliances are few, though. Most tributes are alone in this year's Games." Obviously. I don't know why the Fire and Darkness tributes teamed up, but they both seem to possess the ability to see Borg as he is, but that's not grounds for an alliance.

"A catch-up on our other tributes for our viewers is in order!" Chen claps his hands and leans forward. "The All-Element boy, Lloyd has had his second encounter with the alliance of the Light, Earth, and Metal tributes. Some say it's magnetism, but in this case, perhaps not such an appealing trait!" But he's okay. For now, at least. "The All-Element girl, Arden, was in a bit of a tight spot with a pit trap, but she escaped after a few hours. The Darkness girl has allied with the injured Fire boy, as previously stated. These two could be quite a team, so watch out! The Earth boy, Cole, Light boy, Daphnes, Light girl, Medli, Metal boy, Sawyer, and Metal girl, Scarlett, have suffered from a bit of sabotage…" A clip is shown of Sawyer ripping into the Earth girl with a short sword, then kicking her off of a ledge on a decline. Again, I feel sickened by both the manner of the killing and the ease at which the Metal boy executes it. "Both Ice tributes have kept to themselves, and have set up clever traps around their bases. However, lack of food and water are taking their toll. How long will they stick it out? And finally, the Lightning boy, Jay, has sustained minor injuries from an encounter with a sea serpent, but if he can last through the toxic delusions, he should be all right. And that about wraps it up!"

"Thank you, Master Chen, for that delightful recap." Pixal's voice is so insufferably bored that I almost laugh.

"Anything, m'dear." Chen winks, and then their time is up and the screen flashes back to the patchless again, who seem to have grown in number during the Chen and Pixal broadcast. I'm about to see if I can change the channel when the lights snap off and I crawl into bed.

I think about Lloyd, who has had a second Career encounter. They were probably tracking him, are they still now? You'll get nowhere by worrying, I think. Go to sleep. It is the middle of the night, after all, going to bed shouldn't be too hard. Still I lie awake, though, with the Hunger Games on my mind, all the way until the lights flick on in the morning and the wall port displays my new schedule. Time for phase two of Thrace's plan. When will he finally explain?

**It only came to my realization that I've never replied to any reviews besides in author's notes... Maybe should have done that a long time ago? Oops... Heh heh. So if you wrote a review you should be getting a reply soon! Apologies for the months-late delay.**

**And if it behooves you go and check out the polls! I've said it before and I'll say it again, I ****_love _****to hear from you guys! Shoot me a message if you want, I'm all ears. **

**Thanks again! Vale, mi amici! *waves in Latin***


	39. Chapter 39

**Happy Thanksgiving, all! Or almost Thanksgiving, whatever. **

**I think if you look up the words 'late update' in the dictionary there's a picture of me. Sorry a million times for a Tuesday update... **

**So, next chapter! I like this one, too... See what you think. ;) **

Chapter Forty – Kai

After last night Ming has been treading lightly around me, particularly careful not to get anywhere nearby. However, she's packed all of the supplies and even cooked breakfast, a collection of nuts and berries, which leads me to wonder if she's still afraid of me. Sure, the outburst at the campfire was kind of uncalled for, but what the hell. We're all going to die anyways, why not make the most of it? Ming still is jittery, though, and she has reason to be. I was kind of surprised to wake up alive this morning. Borg probably cut the feed anyways, so no harm done. Right?

Fighting waves of nausea, I manage to stand upright, leaning heavily on a tree close by. Ming observes all of this from a distance, packing my pack that she has volunteered to carry, shoving a few final items in the pouches. I see the switchblade and wish for a moment that I hadn't given it to her last night – but I need to regain her trust, and it was a good start. She catches me watching and we both quickly turn away.

"Do you think you can travel?" Ming asks, and I'm so surprised we're on speaking terms that I almost don't catch her question.

"What? Oh, yeah." She gives me a strange look that I can't identify and I walk over to where she kneels, a little unsteady but determined.

"If you're going to apologize for last night…"

"Oh, please. I haven't stooped that low yet." She rolls her eyes and I refrain from laughing. Instead I hand her the first aid kit and she sets in one of the front pouches. "How long until we leave?"

"Now." She replies tritely, and we both stand with some difficulty, her from the weight of the pack. I feel especially handicapped watching her struggle with the heavy load, but she looks at me steadily, like, I can handle this. So be it, then.

We walk about a mile and a half before we rest, whether for her sake or mine I don't know. Traveling is grueling for both of us, and I am certainly not one to object once we find a place to settle. Ming doesn't seem to have a goal in mind of destination, instead keeping a continuous line of movement, which I guess is useful in its own way. We both drink from makeshift water bottles and eat some of the edible plant life I've collected. The lack of food is beginning to show too, and not just from hunger pains. Ming's cheeks are already hollowed, and I'm sure I look no better. Rationing food is also tough, taking all of our willpower not to devour the meager selection of meals withered and wilted from time in the pack. The food in the Arena, too, is abysmal. Sour berries, tasteless, lumpy plant mashes, nothing sustainable. If I get out of the Games alive I may boycott vegetables and eat meat for the rest of my life. Once Ming ensnared a squirrel, but it only yielded a scrap of stringy muscle that neither of us had the stomach to eat.

Ming looks equally disappointed when she announces we have to continue moving, so she and I get up and walk on, crossing a few streams, mostly just trekking through the same old forest that never seems to change. The cold air feels good on my sweaty face, maybe for the first time, and I almost wish it would rain, delaying our journey. With the Gamemakers you can never tell. Ming stumbles in front of me and I reach out to help her, but she shakes off my hand, muttering, "I'm fine." Tired as I am, I can't help glaring at her back as we continue. What do you want me to do, grovel and beg for your forgiveness?

Our second rest is at a small pond at the foot of a sharp cliff face. Ming shrugs off the pack and it lands with a dull thud on the ground. I sit by the edge of the water and wash off my boots, which have grown an outer shell of mud and twigs and pine needles. My ally follows my example and unwraps the bandages on her hands, washing the cuts in the clear water. The wounds practically cover her skin up to her wrists and look extremely painful, but she cleans her hands and rewraps the bandages without a change in expression. One good thing about having Ming as an ally is that she's tough. Most girls would just whimper and cry for their parents or pets, but she pushes on.

"There's a path up to higher ground a maybe fifty yards ahead, but it's crazy steep and I don't want to risk it." Ming informs me as she finishes dressing her injuries.

"If we're heading that way we might as well check." I add, pulling one of my boots back on and clumsily tying the laces. Getting around with one hand is certainly not as easy as it would seem.

"Whenever you're ready."

We start for the incline and are about to see if we can get up when we see the body.

At first it looks like a maimed animal, a mass of blood, until Ming points out the boots. "Oh, god…" She whispers, putting a hand to her mouth. A foul smell radiates from the dead tribute and she gags. I close my eyes and swallow, trying very hard not to throw up – but there wouldn't be much to throw up anyways. Ming places a hand on my arm and I look again, disgusted.

"Who do you think it is?"

"I don't know. I don't want to know." She replies quickly. "We should go." As we get closer to the dead tribute the smell intensifies, forcing Ming and I to hold our noses. "I'm going to throw up."

"You're not alone." I reply, and she's so sickened she doesn't even seem angry. The ground around the body is muddy and blood-slicked, but we have to walk through it anyways. Ming gags again when her foot gets caught in the bloody dirt and she has to pry it out herself, coloring the bandages on her hands a muted scarlet. I keep my eyes on the trees as we pass the body, although I hear the buzzing of flies and grit my teeth, utterly reviled.

Once we've reaches a safe distance from the dead tribute, although the smell has not left my nose yet, Ming speaks again. "Why… Why did they keep the body there? Don't they get shuttled off after they die?"

"Probably for our purposes." I grumble, and Ming looks up, shocked.

"You don't think – But –"

"Always a possibility." Ming shudders and picks up the pack.

"Let's get out of here, fast."

"Lead the way."

The rest of our journey is uneventful, but with the image of the dead tribute burned in our minds each step is a painful one. It's only around four in the afternoon when Ming offers to settle down for the night, and I don't object. Lightheaded from the exertion and the encounter with the body, I sit with my eyes closed for a while and don't open them until Ming returns with firewood.

"You okay?"

"Yeah."

"All right. It's just… I can't believe anyone would do that. Beyond even scaring us, it's dishonoring to the tribute who died. Any guesses?"

"I can't say I've dealt with decaying bodies, sweetheart." Ming ignores my jab. "Fine. If I had to guess, I'd say the Earth girl who died a few days ago. Since the rigor mortus had already set in and the decay was giving off scent –"

"Don't. Please." Ming whispers, and I stop, leaning my head back against a tree trunk while she sets up the wood. It's too early to light a fire, though, so Ming rearranges the supplies. I note that she still keeps my knife, but she portions out more food than usual, which I'd be grateful for if everything didn't smell like a few-days-old dead body.

"If you're not going to eat, I will." Ming says, and I nod and push my food to her. I don't expect her to eat it and she doesn't, just sets it back in the backpack and pulls out a few leaves.

"What do you expect to do with those?" I ask, close to laughing.

"I'm imitating you. You stare at those things for hours like an idiot."

"Well, you –"

"Shush." Ming puts a finger to her lips and I quiet, glancing behind me, then gesture what? She points to the sky and for a second I hear a slight metallic clink, then a whooshing that is definitely not the wind. A plane? A trap? There are no other sounds, though, not the firing of engines or those of a prowling animal.

"What was that?"

"Care for me to guess again? A hovercraft."

"Why, what for?"

"To pick up the tribute girl. Her purpose was fulfilled."

"That's sick." Ming draws her knees to her chest and looks back to where we were walking with anxiety in her eyes.

"I doubt the Gamemakers would go so far as zombies. Chill." Yep, the icy glare is back.

"We should probably get some rest. It's been a long day."

"Understatement of the year, sweetheart."

The Borg Enterprises anthem startles me awake, and Ming blearily looks up at the sky, rubbing her eyes. There must have been a cannon when we slept, because the Ice girl died. That is interesting – Ice tributes are pretty wily, and it would take a lot to kill one, even if they aren't strong or tough or skilled with arms. "Wonder who got her."

"Whoever they are, I hope they aren't close. Do we need a fire, or…"

"Just leave it. We can take the wood with us tomorrow." Ming nods and settles down on the ground again, and soon is fast asleep. I watch the sky again, finding constellations, remembering the trade I made to know them, and fall asleep with my thoughts on the hub.

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	40. Chapter 40

**I AM OFFICIALLY THE WORST PERSON EVER. **

**I haven't updated in soooo long! Apologies over and over again until I die.**

**But, I'm doing a dual update today as recompense. Hope you enjoy!**

**And now, to read.**

Chapter Forty One – Lloyd

Already there has been another tribute death, so soon after the Ice girl, sounding very, very close to my location. I've gone into hyper-panic mode, which is basically me screaming on the inside while carefully assessing my situation on the outside, appearing calm, when in reality I'm about to pee my pants. My hand has already gone numb from clutching my knife constantly, and my fingers have gone from red to white to a strange pale bluish, but I don't care. When the time comes I doubt I'll have time to whip out my knife.

I rub the torn arms of my jacket, remembering the blast that shredded my clothing and almost obliterated my pack. I don't have thread or anything to mend them either, and the temperature is no warmer, so I'll have to take extra measures to stay warm. My pack's left strap is torn in two, so I have to keep it hoisted up on my right, which has made my shoulder sore, but I don't mind too much. What I do mind, though, are the deep cuts in my pants legs, and my missing shoe. Couldn't the explosion have spared my footwear? My left foot is bound in gauze from the first aid kit to protect myself from anything sharp on the ground, but the most it has done is made my foot fall asleep. I wipe the mud off of my cheek, feeling the clumsily applied bandage that covers a gash left by a stray rock I happened to be thrown into during the blast. Maybe the leg Medli's knife wounded was aggravated by the incident, because it throbs much more painfully now, and I'm forced to hobble around, having to favor a none-too-favorable leg instead. Why now?

Improvising thread is my first priority, and I manage to craft a sharpened twig into a decent needle, then tying strands of crabgrass together to make string. From there I sew together the largest slashes in my pants and jacket, not neatly but well enough that hopefully the stitches won't come out in seconds. Long scrapes hatch my legs, but I ignore them except for the knife wound, which is slowly oozing blood. I take a short swath of fabric and wrap it around the wound, wincing hard at the jolt of pain. All right, get a move on… The largest rips in my pants and jacket are sewn, but there's nothing I can do for my shoe, so I just unwrap and rewrap the bandage. On a whim I find a wide branch and cut it down to size with my knife, then scrape on the top and bottom until I have a straight rectangle-shaped board, then set it against my foot and wrap the gauze. Now I have a sole to my makeshift shoe. Pulling myself up, I test out my new invention. The soles of the real boots are thick, so my left leg is a bit lower than my right, but it's much better than gauze.

The biting wind whistles harshly around the rocky cave I've made shelter in, but I'm spared from the worst of the chill. The lower mountains are full of dangerous cliffs and things – and apparently exploding mines – but the shelter is excellent. A few scraggly trees and bushes collect around the entrance, which is a little conspicuous, but I'm just glad no one else took the cave before I did. There was some black dust on the ground, but nothing obviously caused by a tribute. After the Careers found me again, I'm taking no chances.

Another con – I have officially run out of food. Now I almost wish I had kept the rotten apple slices, even if they would have made me sick, they were still food, no matter how poor. Meals have been comprised of any somewhat edible-looking plant life I can find and a thoroughly disgusting yet filling bulb of a water plant I dug up from a nearby creek. The water from the creek is scuzzy and gross, but I have to drink it, and I don't want to venture any further to find water – partly so I don't get lost, and partly so that I won't have to encounter the Careers again. The rocks of the mountain slope make a clearly audible noise when walked upon, but would the Careers be prepared and have their own methods of walking silently?

I've guessed about the time for a while now, unable to replicate the timestick thing I learned about in trading, and my stomach rudely informs me that it is about time to eat. I pull some of the infernal bulbs from one of the pockets in my pack that isn't completely shredded, hold my nose, and take a small bite. The crisp, biting bitterness, makes my eyes water, but I swallow mechanically, ignoring the burning in my mouth. Each bite is as painful as the next, and once I finish I take the parachute package Finn sent, now a water container, and gulp down the liquid until the taste of the meal is completely gone. I'll have to refill the water later.

My pack also needs to be mended, so I use the string and thread again to patch up the largest tears in the fabric. Once I put the pack on, though, the feeble string snaps under the strain of carrying so much weight, so I give up and smear some mud over the half-sewn tears, hoping that will keep some of the contents in. The inside of my pack, no longer clean and organized but muddy, damp, and smelly, needs to be tended too also, but that is a secondary need. Finding food is a first.

Hunting for game is already out. I haven't seen any animal worth eating since I entered the Games, and there's probably a reason for that. The berries and nuts are all gone, so far as I have traveled out. Soon I'll be confined to eating bulbs and drinking murky water for the rest of my short life. Oh, woe is you! Get over it! I need to find more food, and fast, before someone else does.

The way down the mountain isn't too dangerous, except for one part when you have to hop to the edge of another cliff, so I make it to the forest's edge in a short amount of time. The sky is darkening, so there must be a storm coming, and I want to be back in the cave before it breaks. Better hurry. Still clenching my knife, I plunge into the forest.

As quickly as I can with my limping gait, I reach the muddy stream, cross it, and work my way deeper into the thousands of trunks, swatting away bushes and vines in my path. Another stream comes up, just as dirty as the other, and this is where I usually stop, but I continue on, determined. My actions are rewarded only a few dozen paces in, where I stumble upon a tree with fresh green and brown treenuts dangling from its branches and littering the ground around it. I stuff my pockets and pack with as many as I can reach and walk on. It takes a little more of a hike to find the next edible plant, a tall-stalked herb sort of thing, which grows in clusters. Frantically I swipe the plants out of the ground and push them deep into my bag. I'm about to grab another when I hear a loud, undeniable sound – footsteps, fast and coming for me.

My first thought is one of bewilderment. How did they find me already? I dive into the underbrush nearby the herb plants and crawl back towards my cave, keeping my body and head low. The footsteps pound towards me, the runner making no obvious effort to conceal themselves, either a Career or a stupid tribute, probably the former. Crawling in the dust will do me no good, though, so I leap upwards and sprint back towards the mountains until –

'Oof!" I run smack into a living, breathing something and scramble backwards on all fours, ignoring the sharp bursts of pain from my wounded leg. The thing I just ran into is a tribute – the Lightning boy. He looks scared out of his wits, with mottled bruises coloring one side of his face a dark greenish-purple, hands trembling, mouth open with shock and horror. It takes me a second before I realize I am armed and bring my knife hand to my front, brandishing the weapon at the tribute, but he's already up and gone, kicking up dust as he sprints away wildly, arms and legs flailing, until he's out of sight. My knife arm droops and I set the weapon on the ground, finally unclenching my fingers, which I have to force open again after so long.

A Career would chase the Lightning boy, but I let him be. He looked as scared as I was. My whole body flares with pain as I stand again, brushing off my palms and knees, then limp back to the cave. Today was certainly not a loss; I have more food now. And I met another like-minded tribute – alone, terrified, and running.

The rain begins before I even reach the mountain's foot, so I have to be extra careful about my ascent, with the rocks slippery and certainly more dangerous. The jump across to the cliff is even more frightening when it's pouring. This storm is no different than the others, with the sheets of rain and the howling wind. I pull myself into the cave and unpack my food, setting the capsule out to collect rainwater, and try out the new meals.

The nuts, compared to the god-awful bulbs, are wonderful, earthy and woody and delicious. I have to set them back in the pack with much self-control, but I could easily eat the lot of them. The plants are spicy, but not terribly so, and I have to save them for later, too. With nothing else to do I redress my wounds, especially the knife cut, which bled through the bandage. Before applying another strip of gauze I take the collected rainwater in the capsule and pour it over the cut, barely able to conceal a howl of pain when the water washes over the wound. Breathing hard, I tie the gauze around my leg, put away the first aid kit, and sit by the mouth of the cave and watch the rain, wondering about the Lightning boy. Did he find shelter, or is he still pushing on through the storm? Has he met another tribute, perhaps one less willing to spare his life? But it wasn't my choice to kill him or not this time – he escaped fairly.

I doze off and a stray splash of water shakes me from my doze in time to see the face of Arden shining in the sky. _Arden – dead? No. _My element-mate is dead. It seems so unreal, as I recall the dragon ride, when she grabbed on to me for support, or seeing her in training. _So I'm the last All-Element tribute. _Will the citizens of All-Element cheer for me, or feel dejected, their chances of winning lost? I set the capsule outside again and glance out to the woods, barely able to see the dark trees through the thick waves of rain. I'll go get more food tomorrow, but for now – rest.

The rising sun's dull, dampened beams wake me in the morning and I try to pull myself up, but only fall again, my limbs strangely weakened. The air feels hot and suddenly my coat is stifling, but I don't have the strength to pull it off, my fingers trembling as they reach for the zipper. Panting, I look around for the capsule with the water in it, because my throat and tongue are parched, but I can't see it. Stomach churning, I painfully drag myself back into the cave, each motion straining and painful, and a buzzing fills my ears, which I try to ignore. With great difficulty I reach the back of the cave, arms trembling with strain, then collapse onto the ground, resting my forehead on the cool ground, trying to find respite from the consuming heat, and then I fall into delirious oblivion.

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	41. Chapter 41

**This is an updated version of the chapter, because something happened last time and the entire thing kind of went schizo. Weird technological crazy stuff.**

**Yikes. Did that happen to just me or did anyone else see it?**

**My bad. Now you have an actually readable version!**

**Therefore, read on!**

Chapter Forty Two – Wu

"I think it's safe to say that phase one is complete." Thrace announces proudly, giving us one of his rare smiles. The delegates all clap politely and nod. "The patchless rebellion has grown on a massive scale. Borg's Nindroids have been pushed out faster than ever before – which makes for shoddy workmanship. It is estimated that one half of these new Nindroids are defective in some way or another, and the patchless citizens have embraced this, gained the Nindroid technology, and traders are working on replicating that technology for human use. That is not all that is going on in the hub, though." The rebel leader's eyes shine as he continues. "Weapons are being manufactured, traded, and given to the public. So is armor, rebel tech, and most importantly of all, history. And not just any minor history – Borg' history. The truth about the not-so-legendary ninja, the Serpentine and skeleton wars, you name it. The facts are spreading like wildfire through the rebellious ranks. Even the citizens still clinging to their belief in Borg have been exposed to the new ideas and are asking questions, and when the turn to Borg history books… The blanks where their questions lie are proof enough."

"Thrace, sir, if you please." One delegate pipes up, and Thrace turns to him. "I was just wondering how the citizens are faring. Are they being treated poorly by the Nindroids? Them being defective and all… I have children at the Complex, and my wife. I just want to make sure they are all right."

"We can't say for certain, but those not actively participating in rebellious action – unlike those who used incendiary grenades to burn the school building – they are most likely ignored. I can't see children pulling those pins, though." Light laughter rolls over the table and the man smiles, looking more assured.

"Already we have had a few new recruits come to the base, brought here by scouts. These are the scientists and geniuses behind the patchless, the ones that can be brought here without causing a detriment to the rebellion. And let me tell you, they have some very good ideas about our next phase."

"Sir, are we to receive briefing on phase two?" Watson asks.

"I am about to, General Watson. Are you all ready?" The delegates nod enthusiastically, some withdrawing notepads and pens. Garmadon elbows me lightly and whispers, "Ready to not be confused?"

"You bet!"

"As I'm sure most of you know, or have gathered on your own, this year's tributes are unusual." Okay, I had gleaned as much, and the way their names were changed on the computer was definitely strange. "There are some tributes placed in the Games normally, with no rebel interference. Some Borg chose himself. We agreed with some of his choices. Often a particularly troublesome young person will find themselves dead in the Arena if they're not careful. We want those troublesome young people. Where Borg sees threats, we see promise. A teenager who can see through Borg's veil of lies – that is the soldier we need here. Agreed?" So the kids were chosen. Lloyd was Reaped on purpose? I had thought that before, but…

"The Darkness girl was chosen because of an irregularity in her elemental tests. It is now confirmed that she is a sorceress. Borg saw this, but chose not to dispose of her yet. We decided otherwise." Wait, wait. We're killing the tributes?

"A sorceress? Are you going all magic-and-potions on me now? I didn't sign up to read fairy tales." Says an irate voice from the lower table.

"I assure you, Daniels, magic is as real as you or I. Only sorceresses or sorcerers know how to harness its power, to use it." The back wall comes alight with videos of Ming, the Darkness girl, sending bolts of some sort of energy at a blade monster in the Games. Impossible. But… Could it be?

"The Fire boy was chosen because he has spirit. He has long seen through Borg, he is a trader, and he is a leader. I wouldn't be surprised if some of you are under his lead once he arrives."

"I'm not working under a kid." One man seethes, and Thrace raises an eyebrow.

"How long will it take you to learn? These are not children." We're all silent now, watching Thrace intently. "The Fire boy shows the most promise out of the Reaped tributes. The Earth boy was chosen also for his leadership ability. Although he still is following Borg, he is beginning to question his leader's capabilities and reach. The Earth boy will also lead."

"How will we shake Borg's influence?" A woman asks, running a hand through her short hair. "A grip like that won't be broken easily."

"Doubt, my friend. Doubt is our ticket to a better life. Doubt and these tributes." Thrace replies, then continues. "The Ice boy was chosen for his intellect, along with his exceptional skill with machinery and inventiveness. His products will revolutionize our technology and give us a head start against Borg."

"His diagrams for products are amazing! We don't even fully understand some of them." A female scientist gushes, grinning over her clipboard.

"The Light boy is an incredibly skilled warrior, even at his age, and is on par with the rebels' champions, if not above them. He will be a useful asset when storming Borg Tower and afterwards. The Lightning boy is an inventor, in the same category as the Ice boy. His skills are also incredibly advanced for his age."

"Oh, aren't they a right group of geniuses, perfect. How do we know they're what they're all cracked up to be?"

"Do you doubt, sir? Let me illustrate. Ming has single-handedly killed a blade monster, a feat not attainable by our best squad. Tactical rigged up a model and the best infantry, sniper, or heavy ballistics squads couldn't make a dent. The Fire boy could trade your clothes, birthright, and soul away for a crust of moldy bread. The Earth boy will lead our infantry next to Watson here, I have no doubt. The Ice and Lightning boys will create machines beyond your wildest imaginings. Do you doubt now?"

"What about the All-Element boy, Lloyd?" A few of the delegates glance at Garmadon, but he doesn't notice.

"Lloyd's Reaping was a message to the rebels – he is the son of Garmadon here. He was Reaped to show us that we have no power, that we have exposed weakness in his domain, and that he can exploit it."

"Sir," For one of the first times since I've joined Command, I directly address Thrace, "You talk about the tributes like they will be here, or that we own them. Is this part of phase two?" Thrace looks straight at me and smiles, then turns to the wall projection.

"That, Wu, is exactly what phase two is."

"Oh, please continue!" A young Tactical girl cries out when Thrace dramatically pauses.

"Phase one was comprised of choosing tributes for our rebellion, successfully extracting them from the Complex to the Games, and readying our forces for phase two. Wu, I believe you were at the brunt of some of our best hackers trying to rewrite the Games odds – apologies."

"No offense taken."

"And now we move on to the much-anticipated phase two. In this phase we will take the predetermined tributes, now shown –" A list of tributes appears on the wall projection, reading: Ming Mako, Cole Armstrong, Kai Burns, Zane Julian, Jay Walker, Daphnes Termina, and Lloyd Garmadon, "And with our team of specialists invade the Arena, successfully transport them to our base, and train them to their fullest potential. This also includes what some soldiers have cleverly dubbed the 'ninja program,' but that is for another date."

"Okay, okay, so wait. You're going to bomb the Arena, send in your troops, snatch the kids, and bring 'em back here, right? What about the other tributes? What if one of the kids gets killed? What'll Borg do when he finds out? There are too many unknowns, Thrace! It'll take weeks to work out the details…"

"And that's why we are starting now." Thrace stands, walks to the wall port, then speaks loudly into the device. "Barnes? This is Thrace. Phase two is go. I repeat, phase two is go."

"Sir," The Tactical girl speaks again, pen poised over her notepad, "What exactly is the assault on the Arena formulated of, artillery and manpower and machines?"

"A good question. Five of our pilot bombers will be flown out, along with ten tanks, fully armed and operational. Thirty foot soldiers will accompany them, also armed, the top recruits from infantry, along with a few Mechanic's and Tactical to help them along the way. I myself will be flying one of the bomber planes. General Watson, Mister Johnson of Psychology, Head Nurse Neena of Service, Garmadon of Command and Wu of Command will accompany me. A larger shuttle hovercraft will also join the strike team, on which Johnson and Miss Neena will be aboard, amongst other capable doctors and psychologists. The tributes will want answers. They may react violently. In fact, I expect some will. However, phase two's invasion has been mapped out countless times. The soldiers know where the traps are, where the cameras are, where the tributes will be. I expect this will go without a loss of life."

"Sir, exactly how long will it take for us to penetrate the Arena's forcefield? The invention is an expert one. Do we have the power to get through?"

"Another brilliant advance from Mechanics, yes. Basically, the shells are charged with similar charges as the forcefields, stimulating electronegativity –"

"I'm a soldier, not a scientist. Clarification, please?"

"Um, well," The young Tactical girl turns to the man. "Bang. Boom. We're in."

"Much better. Thanks, sweetheart." The girl blushes and fiddles with her notes.

"The planes are programmed for a journey to the Arena. If Garmadon, Wu and Watson could follow me, please. Miss Neena and Johnson are already on their hovercraft. This meeting is dismissed."

On my way out I pass Eli, who gives me a thumbs-up, and Scourge, who simply nods his approval. A few of the delegates are looking at us coldly, though, and some with barely concealed jealousy. Ignore it. As soon as we are in the hallway and we are out of earshot Garmadon walks next to Thrace.

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"Absolutely."

"Well, I just wanted to ask… Why us? Why not Williams or any of the other, more important delegates? They seem more qualified than us for this kind of mission. Watson will be leading the infantry troops. But what can Wu and I do? There's not much for us to offer."

Thrace looks on Garmadon with a spark of pity in his eyes. "I understand your reasoning. Wu can help with assisting the tributes once they are brought to the hovercraft, breaking the news to them. After all, he's new to the phase two information too."

"Wait." I blow out an exasperated breath. "You mean you've been withholding the information about the phases from me so I can't leak it to the kids?"

"You didn't suspect why you were so often confused?" Thrace asks, and he and Garmadon share a laugh. "And you, Garmadon," Thrace places a hand on my brother's shoulder, and for a second he is not Thrace, rebel leader, tough and impassive, but just another man. "You need to see your son."

The elevator we get into seems ordinary, but Thrace slides a card into a slit near the buttons and the lights turn to a shade of blue in recognition. "Floor Subzero Four, please." Thrace says clearly, and the elevator zips down. So that guy I met was right. There probably is a floor Zero. Once the doors ding open Thrace steps out, and I'm instantly rendered speechless at the sight before me.

The floor is a hangar, rough-hewn from the stone, but totally functional. Six massive planes – five planes, one short-winged carrier which I assume is a hovercraft – fill the space, their sleek metal bodies painted black, lined with the occasional fluorescent stripe. I'm no aviator but even I can appreciate the engineering gone into the machines, which must have taken hours to design. The planes are outstanding mechanical marvels.

"Not bad, are they?" Thrace asks, and Garmadon gives a low whistle. "The one furthest down is ours. This way." I'm still gawking at the planes when a familiar voice shouts a few yards down.

"Hey, look who it is! Big shot around here, aren't ya, Wu? Remember us lowly pilots, huh?" I shake my head and laugh when I see Quill poking from the window of one of the plane cockpits, grinning like a fool and waving. Louis is in the next plane, and he waves too.

"Whose job was it to make you a pilot? The tributes'll never make it out of the Arena alive!" I banter, and Quill shrugs and pulls himself back into the plane, revving the massive engines for effect, then begins to adjust the controls.

The next two pilots I don't know, and Thrace is ours, so he settles into the pilot's seat, with no one as the copilot. Instead of a table and chairs there are high-tech looking seats behind the cockpit, and Garmadon and I strap ourselves in tightly with the mess of buckles and straps attached to the chair.

"We'll be observing from above, no ground contact necessary. Garmadon, we'll get you onto the hovercraft to see your son once he's been accounted for."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"It's the least I could do." Thrace replies, and I can see the gratitude in my brother's eyes.

"All right, everybody. Ready for liftoff?"

"Ready when you are, sir." Garmadon responds politely, but I can tell by his intense expression that every second away from Lloyd is another prolonged moment of torture. Get a move on!

Thrace pushes the thrusters forward slowly and the powerful engine roars to life, making the floor under my feet tremble, and I grab the straps on the chair for support. With a massive groan the hangar doors begin to pull apart like enormous jaws, bringing in the brilliant light of the sun. Thrace turns the controls and the plane slowly swivels to face the opening doors, then activates radio.

"Striker One to squad. What is your status?" Radio static, then other voices stream in.

"Striker Two, squad leader Pike reporting. All systems go, sir, ready for your command."

"Striker Three, sir, squad leader Nantes reporting. All systems go."

"Striker Four, squad leader Louis reporting. All systems go, sir."

"Striker Five, squad leader Quill reporting. Ditto."

"Well, boys," Thrace turns in his seat and smiles at Garmadon and I, "Let's take to the skies."

The rumbling of the engine grows louder as the plane slowly begins to roll towards the open doors, then becomes more and more intense as we pick up speed, until I'm pushed against my seat. Thrace easily manipulates the controls as we speed towards the skies, wheels skipping against the floor, making the plane seem almost eager to fly. The steering tilts upwards ever so slightly and my stomach lurches as the plane rises, about to strike the ceiling of the hangar, when suddenly the metal walls vanish and are replaced by trees and open sky streaked with clouds. The plane lets out a roar of triumph as it soars upwards, and I look out the window, watching the trees and the scenery zip by almost too fast to discern. Below us tanks rumble from an opening in a hill, not nearly as fast as the plane, but quickly. I glance at the navigational controls and see we're on a straight course for what looks like a small bubble, the Arena.

"Striker One, course set for Arena, do you copy?"

"Copy that, soldier. Striker One to hovercraft. Status?"

"All is good over here, sir! Our medical staff has successfully set up an impromptu hospital in the cargo hold. The tributes will be in good hands."

"Excellent. Report in with any further news."

"Yes, sir."

We fly without comment for a while, passing miles and miles of forest, until Garmadon clears his throat.

"If you don't mind my asking, sir, how far away is the Arena? And how exactly will the soldiers retrieve the tributes?" The anxiety in his voice is barely restrained.

"The Arena is roughly half an hour from our current location. However, we will raise our speed once we reach a safe distance from the base. For your second question, the soldiers will use Borg's tracker program to find the tributes, then disable said trackers and bring them back to the hovercraft. Does that answer your questions?"

"Yes." Garmadon nods, but I can tell he's more nervous than ever.

Thirty unremarkable minutes later a small shape appears on the horizon and Quill lets out a whoop over the radio.

"There she is, boys! Let's go save us some Borg-lovin' tributes!"

The other pilots are too dignified to react in the same manner, but I can tell by the sudden excitement in our plane that everyone is ready for this moment.

The planes reach all the way to the Arena walls, where some of the tanks already wait. I wonder for a second how they got here faster than we did in planes, but it's not important. The forcefield is almost invisible except for the shimmering surface, and it looks very solid, but I trust Thrace and the rebels' tech. Once all of the artillery has arrived Thrace flips another radio switch and speaks to the soldiers.

"We have waited for a long time for this moment, soldiers. Countless lives have been lost, and countless saved. And by freeing these tributes, infinitely more will be spared from the wrath of Borg.

"Once you find your target, remove their tracker either by deactivation or extraction, then stun your target and bring them back to the hovercraft, which will stay here at the opening. The Arena is a large one, and you have been issued motorbikes to ease the journey. Be swift, be clever, be strong. And, in the eloquent words of squad leader Quill, let's go save us some Borg-loving tributes!"

Some of the planes and tanks break off to go to their designated locations, but our plane stays put, its nose turning to the bottom of the forcefield. Thrace flips open a small box on the control panel, revealing a red button that glows dimly. Casting us one final glance, he raises a finger and presses it down onto the button, grinning all the while. The entire plane shudders when the missile is launched, then makes contact with the forcefield, exploding into a ball of fiery light, smoke billowing from the contact point. The tanks open fire, too, and soon the spot we are bombing is obscured in smoke and flames, every blast crashing with unmeasurable force, and for a second I see the forcefield flicker…

**I hope those of you who tried to muscle through the strange computer glitch of a chapter didn't give up on this! :) We should be good now.**

**What do you think?**

***taps microphone***

**What do you think?**

***turns speakers up to maximum power like Marty McFly did in Back to the Future***

**What do you think?**

***blown back into shelves***

**Rock 'n Roll. Anyways, just checking the sound to see if you can hear me. Because, you know, I don't just write 'What did you think' up here for my health. I really want to know what you think!**

**Which you can do, so easily, by pressing that review button and typing in a few words! I'll write you back, don't worry. It's common courtesy. **

**I think that's it, amigos. EXCITED FOR WHAT HAPPENS NEXT?**

**Me too. **

**Until next time!**


	42. Chapter 42

**Happy Saturday, dear readers! I hope you're all having a great day. Me, I'm blissfully procrastinating when I should be studying for exams! **

**But anyways, what do you care about that? You care about this, the story that you are probably reading already after skipping the author's note! Am I right or am I right? Well, I guess you wouldn't be able to tell me if you hadn't read the author's note. But I digress.**

**This is the second-to-last chapter! Kind of emotional over here... A proper thank-you will come at the end of the story, of course, but let's just preface it with this: thankyouthankyouthankyou! Every review and favorite makes my day!**

**Since this is getting kind of lengthy, I'll continue it at the end. Read on!**

**P.S. If you were part of the group that saw that Ch. 41 looked like the computer threw up data on the page, I replaced it with the correct version!**

Chapter Forty Three – Ming

Finally, _finally_, the drab grey sky has changed. Well, not really – strange red and orange bursts have shone through the curtain like fireworks, popping up every few minutes, then vanishing. I don't know why Borg would plan a firework display, especially when we can't even see them well enough to enjoy them, but it's a nice change. They began at dawn and it's around midmorning now, with no sign of stopping. I would wake Kai to come and see them, but he might attack me or something, and I'd like to survive to see tomorrow.

Eventually he wakes up on his own and we pack up camp. The pack I have to carry has gained about a thousand pounds since I started my job as the packhorse in the alliance. Kai looks tired and pained, though, I know I can't force him to do it, which would be unjust and also horrible._ You could always help,_ I remind myself._ No. You've gotten this far, don't spoil it now._

After only an hour the pack has grown unbearable, so I call for a break. We both sit down heavily and watch the firebursts for a few minutes, Kai with a furrowed brow.

"When did they start?"

"What, the fireworks things? Around sunrise. Weird, you'd think they'd make a sound. You have your brilliant guesses, any theories?" He just shrugs. Three flashes of light explode from behind the clouds. "I'm going to be right back," I say, then walk to the nearest tree and start to climb. The half-healed cuts on my hands sting as I pull myself up onto the next branches, the bark tearing the bandages, but I climb up to the top of the tree and look to the sky, searching for the fireworks.

They seem to be launched from three points – one directly in front of me, one to the back left, and one to the back right. I watch as the wind rushes through the trees, the only sound in the whole Arena. It _is_ strange that the fireworks don't make any noise. Are they supposed to be silent, so they're not mistaken for cannons?

"What do you see?" Kai shouts from down below.

"The fireworks are coming from about three points, and they don't make any noise. That's weird, huh?"

"Maybe they're on the other side of the forcefield. We wouldn't be able to hear them then."

"But what would the point be then?" I start to climb down, carefully placing my feet on the thicker boughs.

"What is the point anyways? Why fireworks?" _Maybe they're not fireworks at all. Then what?_

"I dunno. Maybe it's for effect, for the Borg Tower people." I hop down from the tree and sit by the pack again. The light seems to grow dimmer as we rest, until Kai points to the sky.

"Check it out. A storm again?" The fireworks are now barely flashes, almost invisible.

"That's weird."

"No kidding. Are they trying to disguise them?" The trees around us begin to rustle, and I'm up in an instant, grabbing the pack and tossing Kai his knife. He stands too, then turns in a slow circle, flipping out the blade.

"Earthquake. C'mon, we should find shelter." As if in response to his words the ground rumbles, then begins to shake slowly, but with rising intensity. I take a step forward, but the moving ground and weight of the pack prove to be too much and I stumble to my knees.

"Take only what you need!" Kai yells, then starts for the woods. I pull the pack off and throw out most of our food and water, with some worry, but when I put the pack back on it is incredibly lighter. My ally is already ahead of me, but I run forward and catch up to him, nearly falling multiple times. I tap Kai on the shoulder to let him know I'm here, and we continue to run, shielding our heads from falling branches or trees. Sharp thuds echo from behind me and I turn to see arrows embedded in a tree. Traps.

"Kai, did you see –"

"Careers. Keep moving!" He whispers, and panic pulses through my body. _Careers, here? How? How did they find us?_

A quiet twang issues from the trees to my left and Kai and I throw ourselves out of the way as the arrow whistles on its course, burying itself in the dirt. I grab Kai's arm and drag him up, ignoring his holler of pain, then continue to move forward. The ground gives a violent tremble and my footing slips; I crash to the forest floor, dazed. Just as I've gotten up on my elbows I see the figures rushing out of the shadows, yelling wildly, holding weapons above their heads in triumph. Another whistling sound and I see Kai lurch forward, grab a throwing knife from the ground, and grip it tightly, his switchblade in the other hand. In one motion he brings his arm back and throws the knife easily. The blade turns quickly, catching a ray of the dim light, then buries itself in the chest of one of the female Careers. The girl stops short, dropping her own knife, then claws for the knife handle, smearing her chest with blood. Too late, though, and she falls to her knees, then on her front, shoving the weapon's point through her back.

The Career's charge is undaunted, though, and I see Medli swinging through the trees with her grappling hook, looking coolly confident. She lets some slack and hits the ground running, drawing short daggers from her coat and moves them over her knuckles and between her fingers with practiced ease. The Metal boy draws a short sword and waves around, a little foolishly, but the look in his eyes is hungry and wicked. The Earth boy follows, holding a much longer weapon, a broad double-headed axe. He seems more apprehensive, but holds his axe firmly.

Medli strikes first, sending the bristling knives from her hands, but I cast a quick spell and the knives hit the shield and fall to the ground, leaving me unharmed. The look on the Light girl's face is almost comical, but is quickly replaced with intense ferocity – she charges right towards me.

The Metal boy saunters over to Kai, who holds his knife before him. With a shout the Metal boy swings his sword around in a motion that would separate Kai's head from his shoulders, but Kai catches the hilt of the sword against his knife blade and twists the Metal boy's wrist backwards painfully, then lashes out with his right foot, landing a good kick. Winded and in pain, the Metal boy wheels and swings again.

I focus on my attacker, now, as Medli whips out her hook and leaps into the trees with it, fading into the branches and leaves. I pivot, searching for her, and am rewarded with a flash of whitish yellow – her Light emblem._ Maybe you should have torn yours off_, I think slyly, then aim a spell at the branch she next steps on, which falls to the ground with a sharp crack. Medli manages to grapple her way to the next tree, but I now have a clear shot at her. The next incantation stuns her, and she drops from her perch, nearly impaling herself with her own knife. She'll be down for a little while longer, so I focus on Cole.

Bringing my hands upward, I move one swiftly to the side and his axe flies from his grip and lands fifty meters away. The Earth boy is rooted with surprise, and I take my move, planting a foot in his crotch and a knee in his stomach. With a soft groan Cole doubles up and I deliver a ringing punch to his jaw, and he collapses. With him taken care of, I turn back to Medli… But she's gone.

Kai shouts as he elbow-strikes Sawyer in the temple, but the heavier Metal boy hits him in the ribs with a blow so hard I wince. My ally flies backward, but rolls back on his feet and slashes his knife through the air threateningly. One of his eyes is already bruised black, but he doesn't seem intimidated. _But Medli – where is she? _

My question is answered when the Light girl swings from a nearby tree and knocks me to the ground, kneeling on top of my chest. Gasping for air, I frantically try to free myself from her weight, but she's much stronger than I am and easily holds me down.

"Ming!" Kai yells, but he's too busy with Sawyer to come to my aid. Medli realizes this, and she smiles, making her more beautiful and yet more terrible than before.

"'Fraid your little alliance isn't gonna be around much longer, no." She makes a pouty face and I snarl, trying to move my hands, but her knees dig into my arms, holding them fast. "Shame, really. But the odds aren't in your favor, Darkness freak." For a second I reach up an arm and hit her arm as hard as I can, but she only smiles at my effort. "That all you can do, Darkness?" Then she punches me, hard, and my head snaps back. The pain from one punch is staggering, and I take deep breaths, feeling the blood running from my nose. Then she hits me again and again, each punch a fresh wave of torture, until I squint into her eyes, dark with evil pleasure, and scream.

"NO!" There must be some kind of magic in my words, because the explosive force blows Medli off of me and against a tree trunk. She hits head-first and slumps back to the ground, drooping weakly. I pull myself to my feet, pressing a hand to my face and flinching, trying to stop my bleeding nose, then I face Sawyer and Kai.

At first their fight seems pretty even. Kai has gotten in some good strokes, with sharp red lines crisscrossing Sawyer's face, arms, and legs, but my ally is weak and tired. Still, he fights like a demon, sweeping Sawyer's feet out from under him, landing sharp, swift punches, light on his feet. The hefty Metal boy can't compete – or so I think, until he charges forward, grabbing the collar or Kai's jacket, and shoves him hard against a large rock. Kai doesn't scream in agony or anything, just gives a short gasp, his eyes glassing over in pain.

"NO!" I shout again, and Sawyer faces me, cracking his knuckles.

"You wanna go, sweetheart?" He licks his lips and I shudder in disgust. "Come on, come and get me. I like a feisty one."

"You asked for it," I reply, then leap forward, tuck myself up, and somersault behind him, kicking him squarely in the small of his back. Sawyer's breath hitches and he falls, not even raising an arm to protect himself, rendered immobile. I dart to the side and kick him hard in the side, feeling the rib snap under my shoe. "That's for the tributes!" I yell. Another kick, another broken rib. "That's for Kai!" More and more blows rain down on Sawyer, but he doesn't react, like I'm kicking a brick. "That's for Darkness! That's for my mother!" Now his face, his nose breaking cleanly. Blood splatters on my shoe, but I don't care. I just keep kicking and kicking him, wanting him to feel my pain, the pain I've borne for so long… Until I crumple to the ground, tears pouring down my cheeks, and sit weeping on the forest floor, the bodies of my enemies all around me. A slight motion – Cole is running away slowly, limping heavily. I let him go, I don't want to hurt them anymore. And I turn back to Sawyer's broken body, seeing the faintest rise and fall in his chest, wonder how much longer he will have to stand the torture I have placed upon him.

"Ming…" I look to the side, red-eyed and gulping, and Kai is there, still sitting at the base of the rock. "You should go."

"We're going."

He shakes his head. "Can't. You know that. I would just slow you down."

"You already have, do I care?"

"Ming, no. He…" Kai gently touches his arm. "I don't think I can travel. I'll stay here. It's fine."

"No, it's not!" I shout, and suddenly I'm sobbing again. "What if they get up again and… And I can't, you can't stay here!" I walk over to him and try to help him up, but the sound of pain he makes is so horrendous that I step away.

"Ming," Kai takes a shuddering breath, closes his eyes, "I can't. And you know as well as I do they're not getting back up."

"I killed them." Kai doesn't respond. "How many of us are left?"

"Their cannons haven't fired yet. Who knows? Ming, _go now." _

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. Now go."

"Why? Why should I go?"

"Because Daphnes is still out there, and I'll only hinder you. You need to get out of here. If someone comes looking for their allies and finds them dead with you and me sitting around – I don't think they'd ask politely if they could kill us or not. Go, sweetheart. And look," With his good arm he raises a crumpled leaf from the ground and waves it slightly. "Help. That's what it says. That's the code. Help. They're coming, Ming." I don't know if he's talking about the Careers or about the mysterious leaf-encoders.

"Why are you trying to protect me, _darling?"_ The sarcasm seems out of place, but I don't care.

"Because. Some people need protecting."

"How do you mean?"

"Magic, huh? How long have you known?"

"You – what?"

"Forget it. Now go, before I make you."

"You're in no state."

"I have my ways."

"Fine. Goodbye, Kai Burns."

"Goodbye, Ming Mako. See you around."

I run and run for miles, legs burning, eyes stinging, crying silently, just trying to put distance between me and the spot of carnage. _I killed someone. Some people, even. It was easy. It was… Simple_. I gasp and wipe the blood and tears off of my face, watching them mingle. Crunching into Sawyer's body when he could not retaliate. The magic that would kill Medli. _I killed them. If Cole had stayed, would I have killed him, too?_ Murderer.

And, just on time, three cannons fire. I look to the sky, almost like I'll see the rounds flying through the sky, or the hovercraft to take away the bodies. Neither appears, but I do catch the enormous explosion, the plumes of fire and smoke billowing towards the sky like an exploded bomb, larger than any blast I've ever seen, and begin to run.

**WHAT DO YOU THINK? Any thoughts before the final chapter? What do you think is going to happen? I guess we kind of eliminated some of our poll candidates... Or did we? Why don't you check and see, and vote for who you think is going to win!**

**(Correction: Vote for who you think is going to win, ****_please.)_**

**And about 'what do you think,' tell me! I love to hear from you and I promise I'll write back! (Except if they're guest reviews, because that's impossible. Believe me, I tried.)**

**Both of these are getting long. Wow.**

**I'm actually kind of sad to be finishing up this story. It's been a great journey and I'm so glad I got to share it with you awesome, wonderful readers!**

**Another apology for the late posting last week - I've been really dedicating my time to my new Zelda fanfic which I posted on my Wattpad. What is my Wattpad, you might ask? Let's see if anyone cares so deeply to ask! *wink wink***

**One more chapter to go! Can't wait to see the polls that come in!**

**Until next time...**


	43. Chapter 43

**This is it. This is the last chapter. Gives you a taste of nostalgia, yeah?**

**You're almost there! Anyone have any guesses on what might happen? **

**I have a proper acknowledgements chapter to follow, but before then, thank you again. ****_Thank you so much! _****(More billions of thank-you's to follow)**

**All right, it's that time again. Say it with me now...**

**READ ON!**

Chapter Forty Four – Garmadon

The soldiers are chattering madly over their comms, updating each other on their status, commenting on the Arena, and I think I'm going to go crazy from all of the noise.

"Closing in on target in lower mountain range, appears stationary…"

"Why'd the Arena have to be so big, eh?"

"Target found, retaliating, don't send in backup!"

Thrace dropped me off in the hovercraft once the forcefield was penetrated and I'm standing in the cockpit with Johnson and Neena, who are both staring at the live feeds from the cameras that the soldiers have. One tribute has already been located, the Ice boy, and he doesn't look too good, but the soldiers have tranquilized him and slung him over their motorbikes, kick-starting the machines and tearing off back to the entrance point. Neena's hands cover her mouth as she watches, and Johnson looks equally horrified.

"Backup! We need backup with the Darkness tribute –" A buzz of static cuts off one soldier's comm and I glance at his feed, which shows the Darkness girl with hands extended, videoed at a crazy angle.

"She's retaliating! You said she had funky magic power, but jeez!" Another soldier whispers, and I see his feed, obscured by a bush – he's hiding. "Tranquilize her, too, sir?"

"Yes, stun her." Watson's garbled voice replies, and the soldier leaps from his hiding place and fires at the Darkness girl. She turns, eyes wide and wild, but is too slow to stop the dart from striking her leg. Dazedly she reaches down towards the projectile, then crumples to the ground.

"Darkness girl subdued, bringing her back to hovercraft. Report, Hicks is down, Hicks is down. Requesting backup to collect him. I can only fit two on the motorbike."

"Request approved. Sending in support now."

"Approaching target – Lightning boy. Five miles away. Target is moving, repeat, target is moving. Will approach with caution."

I scan the screens for Lloyd, but the soldiers must not have found him yet. I realize I'm clenching my hands together and slowly release them, feeling the blood flow into my stiff fingers again. Neena gives me a kind look, then hurries to the hold when a soldier's voice echoes from outside of the door.

"Open up! We've got the Ice boy, and he needs medical attention stat!" I glance over at Johnson, who has taken a seat in one of the chairs in the cockpit.

"When do you help out?"

He shrugs. "I'm with the conscious ones."

"Sir, Lightning boy has been captured and his tracker extracted. Returning to entrance point now."

"Earth and Light boys in sight. Proceeding with caution."

"Careful with those ones, soldiers! The Light kid is a better warrior than you all are!"

"Yes, sir." The soldier's feed shows the Light and Earth boys running through the woods, weapons in hand. How they haven't heard the motorbikes or the soldiers I don't know – or maybe they're running from the soldiers. The Light boy nocks his bow, glancing around apprehensively, when the first motorcycle roars towards them.

The driver is dead in an instant, an arrow sticking out of his chest, but a second motorcycle splits through the underbrush and heads straight for the two tributes. The Light boy shoots again, but this time the soldier pulls his bike up in front of him, and the arrow buries itself in the underbelly of the machine. The Earth boy draws a knife and starts for the soldier, but another motorcycle drives up behind him and he is forced to turn away to face the immediate threat. The soldier on the second bike takes a shot at the Light boy, but the agile tribute leaps away, then draws his sword from a sheath slung over his shoulder.

"Watch the sword, soldiers!" Watson shouts, but it's too late for soldier number two, who rushes forward, gun in hand, and freezes in place as the blade tears into his gut, then staggers back as it is withdrawn. For one horrible second the man sways in place, reaching up to his wound, then collapses. The Light boy pivots and has his bow in hand again, sending another well-placed arrow through the throat of the third soldier, who makes a gurgling sound and pitches forward onto his face, snapping the embedded arrow in two as he lands. Johnson stands and runs to the radio, face white with shock and terror.

"Reinforcements necessary for the Earth and Light boys. Send in your best, they've killed the soldiers sent after them!"

"Copy, copy that…" Watson says, his tone weary.

Onscreen the Light boy takes one of the cycles and kick-starts it, then peels off, leaving the Earth boy to stand there in shock. After a few seconds, though, he takes one of the stun guns from the dead soldiers, probably mistaking it for a real gun, then chases after his ally.

"Tribute mobile, sending in new squad for capture…"

"This kid had better be a darn good soldier if we're killing our boys for him…"

"Fire tribute captured, in need of medical attention, on our way back to entrance point. Do you copy?" One soldier asks, and I see his feed of him zipping over the terrain on his bike.

"Copy that!" Watson says, and his sigh is audible over the radio static. This whole ordeal must be very taxing for him.

"Light boy in sight, moving in!" The next feed shows a soldier driving towards the Light tribute, then pulls directly in front of him, stomping on the brakes. "Give it up, kid…" Undaunted, though, the Light boy throws himself violently to his left, knocking the bike on its side, then slides into the soldier's bike, knocking it out of his way. He pushes himself up and continues driving.

"No way." Johnson says, and I gape at the Light boy as he continues.

"Earth boy found and contained. One soldier wounded, but not gravely. Returning to entrance point, sir."

The feed of another soldier shows him driving parallel to the Light boy behind some trees, but the tribute takes his hands off the bike, draws his bow, and shoots the soldier in the head. His feed turns to static.

"No way." Johnson repeats, and Watson curses over the radio, which is very unlike him.

"Soldiers! Stealth is useless. You need to outsmart him! Strength in numbers, strategy, throw it out the window! Find a hole in the kid's defenses!" Then he mutters, "Wonder if the kid'll even join the rebels at all."

"All-Element boy found! Will need medical attention. Returning to entrance point." My head snaps up and I find the soldier's feed, searching for Lloyd.

"They found him!" Johnson cheers, and I feel like the weight of the world has been lifted from my shoulders. Lloyd, my son, is safe… I sit in a chair and put my head in my hands. He's safe now. He's safe.

"Light boy sighted. Activating traps." The Light tribute is seen for a second, driving easily over the rough terrain, then the area where he is explodes and I see the bike spiral to the side, blown away by the blast.

"He is… What's the word, unhorsed? Light boy without vehicle, proceeding!" The Light boy is already up with his bow drawn, though, pointing it at the trees, at the enemies he can't see. The soldier on the feed creeps forward, then takes out a small smoke grenade and pulls the pin, then rolls it into where the boy stands. An arrow punctures the tiny shell and smoke hisses out, blinding the soldier, who stumbles backward, then shouts in pain as an arrow buries itself into his shoulder. Shots echo from around the Light boy, and I watch a new feed as a soldier runs to the boy's prone figure.

"He's still conscious… what the hell?"

The soldier takes a few steps back as the Light boy begins to tremble, then convulse on the ground, curling into a fetal position but not making a sound. His eyes widen and foam forms at his lips, bubbling down his chin, and he makes the most horrible, gasping sound of pain… Then lies still, body stiff, unblinking.

"Re-report." The soldier says, his voice trembling, "The Light boy is dead. Taking him in for examination. Repeat, the Light boy is dead." There is silence on the radio line as everyone tries to figure out what just happened, and I hear Johnson breathing quickly. As the soldier picks up the body of the Light boy I see the veins in his arm blackened and protrusive, like cords of black twining their way to his heart… Strange.

"All tributes accounted for, sir. Waiting for return of Earth, All-Element, and Fire tributes to hovercraft. Should we get ready to leave?"

This time, Thrace speaks. "Yes, all soldiers, prepare to leave Arena. Retrieve all rebel items left in Arena! That includes motorbikes, bodies of soldiers, bullet shells, whatever you can. We must leave Borg no clues about us." There's a short breath on the line, then the rebel leader speaks again. "I would like to have a moment of silence for the soldiers who gave their lives retrieving the tributes from the Arena. I said that this would be a mission without loss of life and it should have. These soldier showed true devotion to their cause. Please, if you would." And no one speaks.

The voices of the medical staff and soldiers seep into the cockpit and I head to the hold, which does look like a small hospital. The gray metal walls now hold medical supplies and the floor is covered in gurneys, on which the tributes lie, all unconscious. Doctors and nurses buzz around the wounded tributes, holding bloodied medical supplies or inserting IVs or adjusting drips.

"I need the tongs over here!"

"Hurry with that! We can't have infection set in!"

"Never mind how much it hurts, it needs to be done!"

There is another knocking bang and a soldier walks into the hold and deposits the Earth tribute on a free gurney, followed by another carrying the dead Light boy, who is placed in one corner with a sheet hastily pulled over his body.

"We can do autopsy later. For now, let's avoid having to do two."

It seems to take ages until the last soldier comes in and I see a flash of blond hair – Lloyd – and suddenly everything in the world narrows down to the space between me and my son. Shoving medical staff aside, I rush to the gurney Lloyd has been laid on and grasp his hand, feeling his weak pulse, the feverish warmth in his skin. He takes a breath and his eyes flutter open.

"Dad?" Lloyd asks weakly, squinting as if he doesn't believe what he's seeing. Then again, neither do I.

"Yes, yes. I'm here, son." I whisper, crying unashamedly, because nothing else in the world matters now that Lloyd is safe. As his eyes close clutch his hand in mine and stay there until the doctors pull me away. Even then, I don't care. Lloyd is safe. Everything will be okay.

END OF BOOK ONE

**You've finished, dear reader.**

**That's crazy. Finished. Complete. All the whopping 43 chapters of it. You persevered!**

**A few questions to conclude on:**

**What do you think will happen at the base?**

**What happened to Daphnes?**

**What could possibly happen next?**

**This is the last chapter, I cannot get over that. Every person that reads this - you are incredible! (And have incredibly good taste :D)**

**There's an acknowledgements part after this when we'll really get into the thanks and all. A few more concluding things, if I may.**

**1\. There will be a sequel!**

**2\. I plan to release the first chapter of the sequel on Christmas Day. Merry Christmas to you all!**

**3\. You people are my absolute favorite people ever! I've said it before and I'll say it again.**

**Remember when we did three random facts? Seriously, what was I thinking?**

**For the last time in this story, I'll say it: Until next time, dear reader.**

**(P.S. To the people that wanted to know, my Wattpad is CaroDelMonte. Guess I should start saying Until next time from Caro, right?)**

**Until next time, dear reader.**

**(P.S.S. NOW THAT THE STORY IS OVER YOU CAN REVIEW IT! TELL ME EVERYTHING! COMMENTS, CONCERNS, QUESTIONS, RABID FAN THEORIES, SEND 'EM IN!)**

**(P.S.S.S. If you were part of the group of people who saw Ch. 41 in all its unholy computer glitch glory, I fixed it! Now you can actually read it!)**

**Okay, for the _last _last time...**

**Until next time, dear reader.**


	44. Acknowledgements

I started writing this story one day because I thought - hey, why not? It was just a fun project, and I thought I would just read it myself or something. The most 'sharing' it ever received was when I texted the chapters to my friend, who just so happened to have an account to a fanfiction website. I had read some of the stuff on her iPad and wondered it I too could post stuff there. After a brief conversation with my parents I got online and spade-of-hearts was born.

What did I really expect when I posted those first four chapters? I have no idea. But did I expect this? No way at _all. _Every review shocked me, because I never thought people would get into it. Every favorite brightened my day and I ran around the house shouting that someone had liked my story. No joke, you can ask my family. They'll tell you.

It's one thing to post a story, but it's an entirely different thing altogether to realize someone on the other side cares about it enough to tell you. That's why you guys mean so much to me, because you genuinely care about what I do, and that's an incredible feeling.

That's why I'm asking you to comment your favorite story that you have written, so I can read it! It's the least I can to do for you reading mine. Send 'em in! I can't wait to see what your brilliant minds have come up with.

Now I'll put the spotlight on a few people who have really shaped this story. Drumroll, please!

To my parents, for tiptoeing around the computer while I was writing. Thanks for enduring long rants about characters. Special thanks to Dad, who got to hear the entire plot for the sequel in the car while we were running errands.

To my brother, who would come in and read the line I was writing and laugh, telling me how stupid it was. More often than not, he was right. Thanks, fam.

To Madison (you know who you are) for being my first audience for this story. You're a very talented writer, keep it up!

And lastly to you. The reviewer, the poll-submitter, the viewer, thank you. Thank you for sticking with me through this whole crazy experience. We've been through a lot, right? Random facts, new characters, a one-shot in between, it's been a bumpy, crazy ride, but I wouldn't want to miss it again for the world.

One final request before we get into the sequel - review! It's the end of the story, so go ahead and tell me your every thought. Send anything and everything! Send your ideas, make up characters! You may not feel like it right now, but you are brilliant. Really. Your mind is a crazy awesome place where crazy awesome stuff goes down, and I love that crazy awesome stuff!

Here we go, the big, over-arching thank you. THANK YOU for the two people who voted on the poll (no joke), and the people who reviewed, who made me feel that _maybe I can do this. _THANK YOU for the best fanfiction experience ever. You are the best, and you are a part of the story now, not just characters. Because of you this story means something to someone besides me. THANK YOU.

Two more reminders before I sign off: Spread this story around! I'd love if it got discovered, and if you like it tell your friends! Shout it from the rooftops! Second, and I repeat, review! Be sure to add your story in the review, too. Super excited to get reading!

THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU. You made me realize people care about this, and I cannot thank you enough for that feeling.

For the last time. All together now!

Until next time, dear reader!


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